Need To Be Passed Between Jack And Robby Like A Blunt At A Party If I’m Honest

a pro-palestine group has vandalised parts of donald trump's turnberry golf resort in scotland.

For a moment i thought this said nonna carmy and truly I am beside myself thinking of a carmy with nonna like habits

Save me noma carmy save me save me save me

Companionship | pt. 5

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

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Summary: After a brief mention two weeks ago, Michael gives you a gift, making your feelings all the more complicated.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: y’all are so amazing!💜thank you for all the comments, reblogs, likes and follows! I’m so grateful you all are enjoying this as much as I am!! over 300 followers?? That’s crazy, thank you!!

Someone on ao3 said there needed to be more Robby pov and you know what? I agree! I tried my best lol

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: age gap, foul language, feelings angst, slowburn

not beta read

Butterflies invaded your stomach at the mere thought of him, the memory of his fingers on you — soft and fleeting. How warm his skin had been against yours, seared into your mind.

This is so stupid.

You thought to call Erin and ask her if this had ever happened to her, but there was a fear in saying anything. In calling attention to your feelings. Aside from the fact that he was not looking for anything, your arrangement was a glaring obvious fact that nothing truly could happen between you. Wouldn’t that break all the boundaries you had set with each other at the start? That was not even getting into your age difference, and the uneven balance it could create. He was so much older, it could never work.

Trying to distract yourself with work and studying and late nights with your friends, you still eagerly accepted any of his calls. He still planned a weekly one, but an unplanned call late at night became more frequent. You enjoyed those late night conversations, they were typically more raw and revealing than when he had time to think about what to say.

He had told you more about the hospital administration hounding him, and the third year resident he had taken under his wing some years past.

Toward the end of the conversation, he had asked to hang out.

“Maybe get take-out again, or something.” He suggested.

You contemplated it. Your laptop was giving you a headache, and you were half-tempted to throw it out a window. A little food and conversation might do wonders to make you feel better.

“I’d still like to try that Thai place.” You told him, playing with the hem of your sweater.

“That can be arranged.”

You laughed, “Tonight?”

“Yeah, meet me there at 7?”

—

Michael really had no excuse for the nerves that flooded his system. They nearly always did in your company, but the calm that would wash over him just a little bit later was bliss. It was nice to have someone to talk to — someone interested in his days without wanting to pry. It was freeing, almost, knowing you would still be there for him the following week even if he revealed his harrowed feelings.

There was a hopeful optimism, too — like it was all good practice for human connection. Yet, the thought of someone else on the other line or the other side of the table, it soured.

He was being stupid. He was being reckless.

The feelings in his chest were just simple, calm familiarity. It could never be anything more.

You were nearly half his age, and the thought of embarrassing himself at believing the feelings could ever be anything more made him tense up. The walls around his heart remained steadfast and strong.

Perhaps the whole arrangement was bleeding into something it shouldn’t be — and he thought to perhaps call the whole thing off.

He thought that, but he was already reaching for the phone to hear your voice.

The Thai place was crowded, but you were able to get a table. You were dressed in business casual, coming from work, and your top did wonders for your eyes. He admired you for a few moments in the lobby while you waited for a table, desperately trying to be subtle about it.

When you sat, you looked over the menu with interest and the quiet that settled over you was warm. Your orders were taken and you smiled, eyes roaming around the new restaurant.

“Have you still been pretty busy?” Michael asked.

“Never too busy for you.” You commented effortlessly with a smirk. “But yeah. Getting down to crunch time. Soon I’ll have to worry about getting my license.”

Your first comment made his heart stutter. I’m too old for this. But he was grinning.

“At least you’ll have school off your plate.” He said.

You gave an agreed nod, “I’m looking forward to that fact, oh my god.”

Michael chuckled.

“How was work yesterday?” You asked, looking genuinely interested.

You were good at that — making him want to open up, but some of his days were just too gruesome to tell you about. Too painful to share. You always had an ear open for him, regardless. Part of his mind whispered you were just doing as their agreement dictated, but he shoved that back down.

“It was…” A thousand words floated through his mind: Bad. Good. Terrible. Short-staffed. He settled on, “...fine.”

It was easy enough to see in your eyes that you did not believe him. Pretty eyes framed with long lashes, flickering from his face to your meal and back again. He hated how it felt not opening up all the way, but he feared he would swallow you whole.

He let out a long sigh through his nose, refusing to look at you. A thought was bubbling in his head, half-tempted to tell you about Adamson, feeling guilty for shutting you out. Not yet, I can’t yet, echoed in his head, memories burning in his mind of Adamson on the ventilator.

“Hey, hey, Mike.” You snapped him out of the images that haunted him, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “You got lost there for a minute…are you okay?”

He cleared his throat and you removed your hand, much to his disappointment. He covered it easily, smiling back at you.

“Well, I’m out with a very beautiful woman, so I’d say I’m okay.”

You stared at him, eyebrows raised, eyes wide, before quickly looking away from him. His heart picked up at your reaction, hope blooming. No—

“That’s—well—uh—thank you.”

He smiled, trying to brush all the thoughts swimming in his head aside. “I got you something.”

You sputtered, “What?”

“I got you a gift. I left it at my apartment, figured we could head back that way after we finished eating.” He explained, thinking of the box sitting on his couch. It had sat like a heavyweight in his living room all week.

“You…got me a gift?” Then, “You really didn’t have to do that, Michael.”

He shrugged sheepishly, “I wanted to.”

“Well, thank you. Really. That…you really didn’t have to.”

Michael tried to read all the emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, red eared embarrassment, and finally, gratitude.

He called for the check.

—

Warm feelings were swirling around in your stomach. The cool night air did little for your cheeks, or the heat that had crawled up your neck or wrapped across your chest, holding you tight.

A gift. He got me a gift. A gift. A goddamn gift.

Why the fuck had he gotten you something? A nausea rolled in, feeling like you owed him — even if his only intention had been to be kind. What was it? Did he see something simple, think of you and buy it? Did he go out searching for something to buy?

The possibilities ate away at your insides.

The walk into his apartment building was filled with quiet banter, which helped pull you back out of your head. You registered the look on the woman’s face as she had stepped off the elevator, giving Michael a side-eye, while you both stepped onto it. You swallowed thickly, turning your attention back to the man beside you.

“Maybe they just need a few games to get into the swing of things. I still have hope.” You told him, referencing the game the Penguins had played the day before.

Michael chuckled, “They’re a disappointment, but they’re still my team.”

“Sometimes I feel lucky when I’m too busy to watch them lose.” You laughed, moving beside him when you got to his floor.

You were nervous to be in his apartment again, but a part of you also enjoyed being surrounded by a space that was purely him.

“If it makes you feel any better, it can’t technically be a gift. I didn’t wrap it.” He said, glancing at you.

Your eyes moved around his apartment until they settled on the brown paper bag on his couch. Your heart started racing.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” you said with a small chuckle, looking over at him.

He had his hands in his pockets, side stepping to his couch to grab the gift. Seeing the size of it, you began guessing in your head as to what it could have been — a clothing box? Too big to be a book.

“Here you go.” His voice was so soft as he handed it over.

You lowered yourself onto his couch, taking it from him. It was heavy. Not unbearably so, but it had some weight to it. You smiled up at him before putting your hand into the bag, feeling the box inside.

He moved to sit next to you…impossibly close. Close enough to feel his body heat, feel the shadow of his form hovering.

Gut twisting, you pulled out the box, blinking down at what now laid in your lap. HP was written on the cardboard in large black lettering, and your heart completely stopped. The cardboard had been opened so it was easy enough to peek inside, all your thoughts stalling in your head at the sight of it.

An HP ProBook 460 G11.

A goddamn fucking laptop.

“Michael,” your voice squeaked out, heart hammering against your ribcage. “I can’t accept this. This is too much.”

“I know you were saying yours was giving you trouble.” He said, like it explained everything.

You finally removed your eyes from the box to look at him. He had a soft smile on his lips, but it still reached his eyes, crinkled in contentment. His brown eyes held an emotion you did not recognize, but it crept into your chest and curled up.

“I really can’t take this.” You breathed out, quiet since he was so close.

“It’s bad luck to give a gift back.”

“I thought it wasn’t technically a gift.”

He smirked, eyes flickering down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes. “I want you to have it.”

And that seemed to settle it.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “This was really, really nice of you. Thank you so much.”

He rubbed his hands down his legs, letting out a long breath, “Yeah, of course.”

You grabbed his wrist, forcing his attention back to your face. “I mean it, this…this was incredibly thoughtful. Thank you, Michael.”

“You’re welcome.” And there was your name, so pretty on his lips.

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Companionship Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @cannonindeez @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty

All Dr. Robby Content: @cherriready @kittenhawkk @seeyalaterinnovator

hahah I love a good build up, BUT KISS HIM

they’re so bad at feelings lol

sorry this chapter was shorter, I wanted to get some Robby pov in there. But surprise! the next part is already out🤗

prone bone is the position of all time because you can feel his entire weight pressed into you—impossibly close, sweat sliding down the length of your back and his torso—the sensation both too much and not enough. and he’s so fucking deep at this angle; you swear you can feel him in your throat. but all you can do is lie facedown on the mattress and take everything he has to give you.

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles. 

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole. 

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

This fic was a masterpiece from start to finish. Wow!!!!

don't worry baby (8)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 18.k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, angst, emotional trauma, past interfamilial abuse and neglect, references to disordered eating, verbal harassment. not beta read, all mistakes are mine. didn’t reread, just needed to get it out.

It had been almost three months since Florence. Since the yacht. Since the article. Since Livia’s venom and the silent splash of a phone being tossed into dark water like penance.

It's the end of May now, almost June.

Sticky New York heat pressing against windows that refused to close all the way. Frances McDormand, the dark cat sprawled in front of a rotating fan like she paid rent. And Harry—Harry Castillo, once a name associated with corporate blood sport and too many $10,000 suits—now woke up in soft cotton shirts and made her coffee before speaking a word.

They lived in a loft now.

His penthouse had become unusable—paparazzi parked like permanent fixtures out front, cameras hidden in planters, strangers calling her name like it belonged to them. The final straw had come after a man—angry, middle-aged, face red with thirty years of grievance—broke into her and Maya’s apartment two days after they returned from Italy. He'd shouted about restitution, called her father a thief, and said she should pay the price.

He didn’t make it past the hallway. Danny handled the fallout. But that was it. She packed up everything that night. Maya too. The two of them sitting on the floor with takeout containers and three half-full boxes, looking at each other like the girls they’d been in that apartment didn’t exist anymore.

Now, Maya lived in a sunlit walkup with a balcony that faced a mural of Aretha Franklin and a bodega that sold homemade plantain chips in brown bags. Danny had found it. Helped her sign the lease. Pretended he didn’t care when she called him sweetheart and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

And her? She moved in with Harry. Into the loft. His loft. Exposed brick. Massive windows. Low leather furniture. A kitchen that smelled like citrus and wood and had knives sharper than her oldest fears. It was peaceful. In a way that felt rebellious. And more than that—more than safe, more than new—it felt private. There were no paparazzi. No late-night interviews. No articles. Just the creak of hardwood beneath bare feet and the click of Frances jumping onto the couch like she owned it.

The first morning, she woke up to the sound of birds outside the window and Harry brushing his teeth beside her. They shared the mirror now. She used the left side. He used the right.

She stood on her tiptoes to spit. He always offered her the water glass first. Sometimes they bumped elbows. Sometimes he kissed her cheek, mint on his breath, hand resting on the curve of her hip like it had always belonged there.

She wore his shirts to bed now. The soft ones. The ones with faint holes near the collar or sleeves stretched out from years of being rolled up. She didn’t wear shorts unless she had to. Just the shirts and her underwear and the faint scent of cedar that lingered in his drawer.

Harry Castillo, in his fifties, spent most mornings with one sock on, his glasses sliding down his nose, and a soft frown as he tried to navigate a French press while she sat on the kitchen counter eating a peach. Not just any peach. A perfect one. Heavy with juice. Skinned slightly from the pressure of her thumb.

“Don’t drip on the floor,” he’d mutter without looking.

She’d smirk. And let it run down her wrist.

“You’re a menace,” he said one morning.

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You worship it.”

That got him to glance up. His salt-and-pepper hair was messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression one of a man who had fought empires and now couldn’t stop watching juice trail down the soft inside of her wrist.

He walked over. Took the peach from her. Bit it. Then kissed her sticky mouth. Frances meowed like an old woman disgusted by affection. They both ignored her.

Some days were slow. Painfully, beautifully slow. They’d read on opposite sides of the couch, legs tangled, her feet resting on his thigh while he absentmindedly ran a hand over her ankle. Frances slept on the back cushion behind their heads, occasionally shifting just to prove she still hated sharing attention.

She burned toast almost every morning. And he let her. She insisted on folding laundry while watching old ‘70s thrillers with subtitles she didn't speak the language of. And he let her.

They bickered about dishes but never raised their voices. Harry always said she stacked the cups wrong. She told him he was old and picky. He kissed her anyway. On the temple. On the shoulder. On the mouth if she let him catch her.

He still got up before her most mornings. Still made coffee before she asked. Still whispered baby when he thought she was still asleep. Sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes she just wanted to hear it.

One night in late May, they hosted Maya and Danny for dinner. Well—hosted was a generous term. Harry grilled on their rooftop garden that hadn't had any safety measures since the 70s. She made a salad that was mostly just leaves with balsamic and too much cheese. Maya brought wine. Danny brought flowers and pretended they weren’t for Maya until she rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek.

It was hot that night. The windows were open. Harry had sweat at his temple and she wore a sundress with tiny buttons that kept slipping open near the chest. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You do that on purpose,” he muttered when they were alone in the kitchen.

“Do what?”

“Wear that thing and pretend it’s an accident when the buttons pop.”

She turned. Leaned against the counter. “You’re the one who keeps buying me these.”

He stepped closer. Slid a finger beneath the strap. “You wear them too well.”

She didn’t respond. Just tipped her chin up and let him kiss her again. Soft. Slow. Like there was nowhere else in the world to be. Frances stared from the counter like she was about to report them to the building manager.

At night, they lay tangled. Fan humming. Sheets kicked halfway down the bed. She slept in his arms most of the time. Leg over his hip. Fingers tracing the line of hair at the center of his chest like it meant something. It did. He never said it, but it did.

Sometimes she read in bed while he answered emails. Sometimes he fell asleep before her and she just stared at him. At the lines in his face. At the way his hair curled behind his ear. At the scar on his nose he never explained.

He’d said “I love you” a dozen times since Florence.

Once during breakfast when she spilled coffee on his lap and apologized like it mattered. Once after a fight that wasn’t really a fight—just silence that lasted too long and ended with him saying, “I’m not mad. I just don’t know how to be soft sometimes. But I’m trying. Because I love you.” And once at 2AM, in the dark, after a nightmare left her shaking so hard she cracked a glass trying to get water. He’d pulled her to his chest and whispered it again and again until she stopped flinching.

She said it back every time. But it didn’t have to be said. Not really. Not when he rubbed her back absentmindedly while she watched a documentary about octopuses. Not when he kept a bottle of her shampoo next to his own even though he used bar soap. Not when he cleaned Frances’s litter box without being asked. Not when he looked at her like she was sunrise and sanctuary and the first thing in decades he hadn’t already planned for.

She woke up one morning to the sound of Harry swearing under his breath.

“Shit.”

She blinked awake, groggy. “What?”

He was at the bathroom sink, glasses askew, toothbrush in hand.

“Cut myself shaving,” he muttered.

She padded over barefoot, hair messy, shirt hanging off one shoulder.

“Let me see.”

He turned, jaw tilted slightly. There was a nick under his chin. She dabbed it gently with a tissue. Then kissed it. Then stepped back and said, “You look like an expensive history professor who flirts with married women.”

He squinted at her. “You’re unwell.”

“You’re hot.”

He rolled his eyes. But he smiled. And when she leaned up on her toes to brush beside him, shoulder to shoulder, foam in her mouth and their arms bumping, Harry Castillo—king of quiet rage, legend of business and ruin—looked down at the girl beside him and thought, This. This is the whole damn point. Harry didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to.

Just watched her as she brushed beside him, their reflections overlapping in the fogging mirror, toothpaste smudged at the corner of her mouth like war paint. She was humming something—off-key, tuneless, maybe not even a song. Just sound. A sound that only existed here, in this room, in the morning, with his old toothbrush vibrating quietly between his molars and her pink one clutched like a dagger.

She spit. So did he. She rinsed, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and kissed his shoulder before walking barefoot back into the bedroom. Her shirt was slipping again. He let it.

He rinsed last. Adjusted his glasses. Then reached for the tiny towel she always insisted on hanging on the hook he never used before she moved in. He wiped down the sink. It was a recent development. A routine, of sorts.

He didn’t used to wipe the sink. Now he did. Because she noticed when he didn’t. Because she kissed him on the cheek when he did. Because somehow, the wipe of a towel and the scent of her mint toothpaste and the sound of her humming nothing in particular had become the holiest part of his day.

The morning rolled on. There was no work meeting. No call. No reason to check his email but he did anyway—just out of muscle memory. He grunted at something on the screen. Said Jesus Christ at another. Then closed the laptop and tossed it onto the couch like it had personally offended him.

She was curled up in the armchair across the room with a bowl of cereal and a spoon too large for the bowl, watching a rerun of a British cooking show where every contestant cried when their meringue collapsed.

Harry walked over, grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the chair, and tucked it around her legs without asking. She didn’t say anything. Just looked up and smiled. Then fed him a bite of her cereal.

He made a face. “Is that...almond milk?”

She nodded. “We ran out of your kind.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She grinned. “You’ll live.”

At noon, she left to pick up flowers. It wasn’t for anything in particular. Just because she’d seen some wild peonies at the corner bodega and thought they’d look good next to the coffee machine. She came home with two bundles—pink and blood orange—and a package of sticky notes she didn’t need.

Harry was sitting on the floor when she got back, rearranging the books on the bottom shelf of the built-in like it was a life-or-death situation. He had his glasses on and a pen tucked behind his ear, even though he wasn’t writing anything.

“What are you doing?” she asked, amused.

“Someone moved Letters from a Stoic next to Norwegian Wood.”

“So?”

“It’s thematically violent.”

She snorted.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Those flowers for me?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

“Partial truth.”

She set them in water while he made another espresso he didn’t need, and they stood in the kitchen for a while—not talking, just drinking, just existing. She looked over at him—socks, shirt half-tucked, a faint smear of pen on his hand from writing something earlier in his notebook—and thought, You’re so much softer than you know.

It was later—way later, when he was in the shower and Frances was curled up on his pillow like she’d claimed it—that she saw it. She was scrolling. Aimlessly. One of those early evening doomscrolls where the light was changing and the room smelled like lavender and Harry had just shouted something about how the shampoo was empty even though it was not. And there it was.

“Castillo Turns 55: A Look Back at the Billionaire’s Rise, Fall, and Silence.” —The New Yorker.

She blinked. Paused. Scrolled back up to the article. She didn’t click. She didn’t need to. The photo was recent. Harry in a dark coat. Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets like always.

Her stomach fluttered. Fifty-five. He hadn’t said anything. Not once. And it was this week.

She glanced toward the bathroom. Steam fogged the crack beneath the door. His voice—low, raspy—was humming something old and terrible. Probably Elvis.

He hadn’t said a damn thing. Of course he hadn’t. Because Harry didn’t like attention. Didn’t like celebrations or singing or surprise parties or anything that made people look at him longer than they had to.

Which meant…she was absolutely planning something. The next morning, she started a list. She didn’t tell him.

Just opened a fresh page in her notes app and titled it: Operation: Old Man’s Birthday (Do Not Let Him See This)

Under it, she typed

Invite: Francesca, Luca (maybe), Maya, Danny

Location: Home (safe, intimate)

Cake? (He says he hates sweets but eats mine)

Gift?

Music?

Do I invite his sister?

She stared at that last line for a long time. Then added a space beneath it.

Pros:

She might be the only blood family he has

He’s mentioned her exactly three times, which is more than Lucy

Maybe he’d want her there, even if he doesn’t know it

Cons:

He hasn’t spoken to her in years

He might actually kill me

Might ruin the mood

Might make him shut down

Might make him remember something he doesn’t want to

She sighed. Backspaced the whole thing. Then re-typed it again.mShe didn’t delete the list. She didn’t move it. She just left it open in the background like a quiet question.

Over the next few days, she got sneaky. Not lying—not really. Just careful. She asked him things like “what kind of cake do you hate the least” while pretending to talk about a TV show. She bought candles but hid them in a drawer under her spare socks. She asked Maya to help distract him on the day-of, to make sure he didn’t randomly decide to cancel and go for a six-hour walk in Central Park like he did on bad press days.

Maya agreed with exactly three smiley faces and one grandpa emoji. Danny offered to buy a dozen chairs. She told him there would be six people total. He replied, Fine. I’ll still wear a suit.

That Thursday, Harry asked her why she kept rearranging the fridge magnets.

She blinked. “Just bored.”

“You spelled spleen.”

“I like the word.”

“You spelled it twice.”

She shrugged. “One for each of yours.”

He squinted. “Are you okay?”

“I’m excellent.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. Then leaned in, kissed her forehead, and mumbled, “You’re a weirdo.”

She googled his sister that night. Didn’t tell anyone. Just lay in bed beside Harry—his arm around her waist, his breathing deep and even—and searched her name in the dark.

Isidora Castillo. Married. Two kids. Lived upstate. Social media set to private. One blurry photo from a fundraiser five years ago. Nothing else.

She stared at the screen for a long time. Harry had only mentioned a few times. He hadn’t spoken her name. But he had smiled. And then stopped. And then changed the subject. She closed the screen. Stared at the ceiling. Didn’t sleep much that night.

The next day, he brought her coffee in bed. She was already half-awake, cheek pressed to his pillow, dreaming of something too warm to remember. He set the mug on the nightstand. Sat down beside her. Ran a hand down her back in slow, sleepy strokes.

“Baby,” he whispered.

She cracked one eye open. He was shirtless. Hair wild. A smear of toothpaste near his temple like battle paint. She laughed. He leaned down. Kissed her shoulder.

“You were twitching,” he murmured. “Thought you were dying.”

She groaned. “Just fighting my enemies in REM.”

He smiled. Then pulled her closer. And just like that—everything settled again.

She still hadn’t decided about Isidora. The party was only a few days away. The cake was ordered. The drinks planned. The music soft and curated and free of anything too happy. Francesca had offered to make a toast. Luca swore he wouldn’t. Maya said she’d bring flowers, and Danny promised to behave. But still—his sister. A name that lived in silence. A woman he hadn’t seen in over a decade.

That night, as they sat on the couch—her feet in his lap, Frances purring like judgment behind them—she asked quietly, “Do you think people can change without reaching out to the ones they hurt?”

Harry looked up from his book. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Just thinking.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then said, softly, “Sometimes reaching out feels like opening a wound you spent years trying to stitch shut.”

She nodded.

“Sometimes the people you hurt…don’t want to hear from you.”

She swallowed. He set the book down. Touched her ankle.

“I haven’t spoken to my sister in fifteen years.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t angry. Just tired.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “She just...didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to explain.”

She reached for his hand. Held it. Harry leaned in. Kissed her wrist. And whispered, “I should’ve told her I missed her.”

Her heart cracked. Not loudly. But deep. That night, she typed one final addition to the list: Invite Isidora? She didn’t decide. Not yet. But the fact that she was even asking? That was a beginning. And Harry—who held her closer that night, who whispered you twitch in your sleep like you’re fighting for us—

Well. He didn’t know it yet. But he was about to have a birthday. And for once in his life—

He wouldn’t have to fake the smile. Not this year. Not with her. Not with the days falling into each other like warm laundry, one after the next, quiet and domestic and full of small, glittering moments that didn’t make headlines but meant everything.

It was two days before his birthday. He didn’t know it. Of course he didn’t. He knew the date, technically. Knew it in the way Harry knew all things—gruffly, quietly, with a sigh. He didn’t care for birthdays. Didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want fuss. He said he’d already had too many. Said he’d rather ignore the number and drink his coffee in peace.

So she let him. Pretended right along with him. And secretly, she planned the whole thing anyway. The morning started the same as most. Frances yowled like a Victorian ghost outside the bedroom door because Harry forgot to feed her on time.

“I have to breathe before I serve you,” he muttered, half-asleep, dragging himself out of bed in boxer briefs and one sock.

She stayed curled beneath the covers, watching him shuffle down the hallway like a man twice his age and three times as dramatic. She heard the rustle of the treat drawer. The clang of her metal bowl. Harry’s voice, exasperated, already talking to the cat like she paid rent.

“You eat better than I do. You live better than I do. You’re not even grateful.”

Frances meowed in agreement.

He shuffled back five minutes later, hair sticking up, glasses crooked, coffee already in hand. She sat up, smiling.

“Your fanbase grows stronger every day.”

“I’m held hostage in my own home.”

“By a ten-pound feline.”

“She's fifteen pounds and fully demonic.”

She leaned over and kissed his temple.

“You like her.”

He didn’t respond. But he scratched behind Frances’s ear later when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Later that afternoon, she did it. Sent the email. An email she stole from Harry's list of contacts. Just a few short lines. Nothing fancy. No emojis. Just enough to say I'm planning something for Harry. I think he'd want you there, even if he doesn't know it yet.

To: isidora.castillo@email.com

Subject: Harry

Hi. I know this might be unexpected. I’m planning something for Harry's birthday. He doesn’t know. I thought maybe...if you were able to come. Quietly. No pressure. Just thought you should know.

She sat with it for a moment. Hovered. Then hit send. Then closed the laptop before she could regret it.

She didn’t tell Harry. Instead, she made pasta. The simple kind. Garlic. Olive oil. Too much chili flake. Harry walked in from the laundry room, where he was grumbling about mismatched socks like it was a moral failing, and stopped short at the smell.

“Are you seducing me with carbs?”

“Would it work?”

He paused. Then walked over. Looped his arms around her waist from behind. “I’d sell state secrets for a good penne.”

She smiled. He kissed her shoulder. And that was that.

The day after, she bought string lights. Also a lemon tree in a pot too big to carry by herself. She had to bribe the delivery guy with a twenty to lug it up to the rooftop. She texted Maya a photo of it from the stairs,

You: This might kill me but it’s cute

Maya: If you die under a lemon tree for this man I’m telling everyone it was on purpose

That afternoon, Harry spent three hours reorganizing his bookshelf because he was tired of seeing all the spines like a lineup of failures. She watched from the couch, flipping through a magazine, as he sat cross-legged on the rug muttering things like, “This belongs in this section,” and “Why do we have three copies of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?”

“You bought them.”

“Then I clearly have problems.”

She slid off the couch and crawled across the floor to him. Wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “You’re turning into a weird old man.”

He leaned back into her.

“I’m already there.”

That night, she got an email back. From Isidora. It was short. Tentative. But warm.

I’d like to come. If you’re sure he’d want that. I can be in the city Saturday afternoon. I’ll stay nearby. I don’t want to intrude.

She stared at it for a long time. Then whispered with a smile, “Fuck.”

Harry looked up from the couch, where he was frowning at a puzzle she didn’t know he’d started.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said something.”

“Talking to Frances.”

Frances, on the windowsill, flicked her tail in betrayal. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re scheming.”

She crawled over, kissed him once, and said, “I’m always scheming.”

He grunted. But let it go.

Saturday morning came with soft rain. It drizzled over the windows in thin, quiet streaks. Harry was still in bed, shirtless, arm flung across her waist, one leg tangled between hers like gravity had a personal stake in her staying put. She checked the time. 7:48. Checked her phone.

Maya: I’m on snack duty right? I’m bringing the lemon chips.

Danny: Frances is banned from the cheese board. I will not be taking notes.

Francesca: Do we dress up or pretend it’s casual? Because you know me.

She smiled, tucked the phone away, and went back to pretending to be asleep. Harry shifted behind her. Grumbled, “Stop moving.”

She stayed still. By noon, the rain had passed. Harry was in his office, door open, on the phone with someone he referred to only as a vampire in Zurich. His voice was low, tight, full of clipped sarcasm and verbal knives.

She watched him from the hallway for a moment—glasses perched low, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in that don’t test me way that made most men wilt. He noticed her. Mouthed, Come here. She walked over. He pulled her down onto his lap, still on the call, and let his hand rest on her thigh while he said something about international compliance laws. She leaned her head against his.

And whispered, “You’re very sexy when you’re threatening people legally.”

He squeezed her knee. Didn’t miss a beat on the call. That evening, Harry went to the corner store for wine and oranges because he ate the fruit like it was going out of style.She used the time to sneak up to the rooftop.

The lemon tree was already there, still in its comically large pot, looking smug. She brought the string lights up next, one long loop at a time. Hung them from the rusted metal trellis with zip ties and silent prayers. The breeze smelled like fresh concrete and whatever plant was blooming down on the sidewalk.

She stood in the middle of the rooftop for a moment. Hands on hips. The sky was a soft purple now. The city buzzing beneath. She thought of Harry. Of the way he rubbed his eyes when he read for too long. The way he touched the small of her back when they crossed streets. The way he leaned into her hand when she brushed his hair back. Like a cat. Like a man who hadn’t let himself be held in years.

She thought of the cake downstairs in the fridge. Of the candles hidden in the sock drawer. Of Isidora, arriving tonight. Of how much Harry had changed—and hadn’t. Of how he loved her. Quietly. Deeply. In every wordless way.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. And whispered, “Happy almost birthday, old man.”

Then got to work. She finished stringing the last loop of lights just as the sky dipped fully into that soft, summery dusk—blue bleeding into lavender, the kind of light that forgave everything. Their rooftop garden had never looked better. The lemon tree sat proudly in the corner like it had always belonged, the string lights casting a honey glow over the mismatched chairs and the long wooden table she and Maya had thrifted last month.

There were little details everywhere. A bowl of clementines. Tiny gold place cards she wrote out in her best almost-cursive. Cloth napkins folded like someone who’d once watched a YouTube tutorial and mostly remembered it. The cake was downstairs in the fridge. Lemon again.

Because Harry had once said, in passing, “I'm a citrus man.”

It was almost seven when she heard Danny’s feet on the stairs.

Maya trailed behind him, both of them slightly breathless, carrying a case of wine, two bouquets, and a tiny tin of anchovies because Harry’s a freak and likes them on crackers. There's things that remind her that the man she's with is really decades older than her. 

“Go!” she hissed from the rooftop entrance, waving them up. “He’s in his office. He doesn’t suspect anything.”

Danny grinned. “I’m honestly shocked. He usually suspects everything.”

“Because usually you act suspicious.”

“Rude.”

Maya stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “You look like a someone about to propose.”

She laughed. “I feel like one.”

“Where is he?”

“In his office. Still thinks it’s just dinner for the two of us.”

Danny was already uncorking a bottle. “You are not emotionally prepared for how smug he’ll be when he finds out you pulled this off.”

“Shut up and light the candles.”

About an hour later downstairs, Harry was finishing up an email with his glasses perched on the end of his nose and his mouth doing that thing it did when he was technically not grumpy, but close.

She leaned against the doorway. “Come upstairs. Five minutes.”

“Can't.”

“I'm finishing up an ema—”

“It’s warm out. The sky’s nice. Come on.”

He grunted. But got up anyway. Muttered something about “damn good weather and you not taking no for an answer” while following her up the stairs in socked feet and a soft navy button-down she’d ironed that morning.

“You look nice,” she said, glancing back.

He adjusted his glasses. “You ironed my shirt. I feel like I’m going to prom.”

“You kind of are.”

“Prom didn’t have wine.”

“Depends where you went.”

He stepped onto the roof. And stopped.

Danny was lighting the last of the tealights, Maya holding the lighter steady while balancing a glass of wine in her other hand. The table was glowing, the light pooling in soft circles, and the people waiting all looked up at once. Francesca, barefoot in a white linen dress, raised her glass. Luca smiled, already slightly flushed from wine. James—Harry’s driver—stood near the lemon tree, arm slung around his wife’s waist.

And at the far end of the table stood Isidora. She looked older than the last time he’d seen her. But only a little. Still the same eyes. Still the same posture. Still his sister.

Harry didn’t say anything. Just stood there. Silent. The kind of silence that sat heavy in the chest.

Then she stepped forward. Just two paces. Enough.

“Happy birthday, big brother.”

His jaw moved like he was going to say something sharp. But it never came. He walked over in three strides. And hugged her. One arm. Then both. Tight. The kind of hug you don’t realize you’ve been needing until your knees feel soft. He buried his face in her shoulder for a second.

She whispered something only he could hear. He nodded. Whispered something back. And the world, for a moment, shrank to just that.

Dinner was slow. Perfectly slow. Warm plates passed hand to hand. Cheese and anchovies and roasted vegetables. Pasta with lemon zest and basil. Slices of bread too crunchy and a little burnt because she got distracted talking to James’s wife about hummingbirds.

Luca told a story about someone falling off a boat in California. Francesca corrected every detail and still managed to make it funnier. Danny made a toast about Harry being “halfway to death and somehow still only at the start of being tolerable.” Harry flipped him off without looking. Everyone laughed.

Isidora slid her card across the table near the end of the meal. Didn’t make a big deal of it. Just a plain envelope. Harry opened it lazily. Then paused. Read it again. It just said,

YOU ARE STILL THE BEST THING I EVER SHARED A ROOF WITH. He folded it back up carefully. Slipped it into his breast pocket. Didn’t say anything. But she saw his eyes. Saw the way they shone.

Later, after dessert but before people started drifting to the edge of goodbye, Harry stood behind her while she refilled a pitcher of water. His hand slipped to the back of her waist.

He said it softly. “You did this?”

She smiled without turning. “I had help.”

“I don’t mean the candles and the food.”

She looked back at him. He was watching her the way he did sometimes—quietly, like it hurt.

“I mean the part where I forgot to hate my birthday.”

She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. “You’re allowed to be loved.”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned down. Kissed her hair. And stood there with her a while longer.

Isidora found her a little later, down by the lemon tree, folding napkins that didn’t need folding.

“She really would’ve liked you,” Isidora said, unprompted.

“Who?”

“Our mom.”

She blinked. “You think?”

“I know.”

They stood in silence for a minute. Isidora handed her a piece of folded napkin that she’d somehow made worse. “I’ve missed him,” she said. “For years.”

She didn’t reply. Just set the napkin down and looked up at the sky. The stars were out. A few. Not enough. But more than none.

By the end of the night, Harry was barefoot from slipping off his socks and giving it to the girl beside him.  Glass of something golden in hand. Frances asleep in a patch of moonlight. Maya and Danny curled on one of the couches in an argument about tax loopholes and types of toast. Luca singing something under his breath. Francesca singing with him, laughing.

Harry leaned against the railing, one hand braced, watching his people. Watching her. She walked over. Tucked her arm under his. He didn’t look at her. Just murmured, “Fifty-five isn’t so bad.”

She smiled. “Not when you look like this.”

He grunted. Then looked at her.

“You’re the best part.”

“What?”

“Of all of it.”

She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“Say it again in the morning.”

“I will.”

And he did.

The morning after his birthday began the same way most mornings did now—soft light spilling through the loft’s massive windows, the ceiling fan creaking faintly overhead, and the weight of Harry’s arm draped over her waist like it had been there forever.

He smelled like linen and something faintly sweet—probably wine and citrus from the cake, or maybe just him. She stirred first. Only barely. Shifted enough to nudge her nose against his shoulder, already half-tangled in the sheets. One of his feet had kicked out during the night and was now hanging halfway off the bed like gravity didn’t apply to men over fifty.

She smiled. Didn’t open her eyes yet. Harry grumbled something unintelligible against her temple. Then, “M’not fifty-five.”

She laughed softly, eyes still closed. “Yes, you are.”

“Not until the cake’s gone.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.”

“Legal loophole.”

“You made that up.”

Harry groaned dramatically, then pulled her closer. His mouth found her shoulder. Kissed it once. “So when does the government come for me?”

“Probably today.”

“Bastards.”

She rolled over slowly. Faced him. He looked wrecked in the best way—hair flattened on one side, pillow creases on his cheek, stubble more salt than pepper this morning. His glasses were on the nightstand, next to the folded note from Isidora he hadn’t stopped rereading.

She brushed her thumb across his jaw. “How do you feel?”

Harry blinked, slow and thoughtful. “Full.”

“Of wine or emotion?”

“Both. But mostly you.”

She smiled. Leaned in. Kissed the corner of his mouth. They didn’t get out of bed until almost ten. Mostly because he refused to move. And partly because she let him bury his face between her shoulder blades and mumble things like you’re the reason I believe in retirement and if I die here it’ll be your fault and I’m okay with that.

When they did get up, she wore his boxers and the tee she’d slept in—black, worn thin, with the collar stretched just enough to show her collarbone. Harry padded into the kitchen shirtless, glasses on now, hair wild. He made coffee the way he always did, slow, methodical, complaining the whole time.

“You should throw out the beans when they’re this old,” he muttered.

“You bought them.”

“Didn't bring my glasses when I went to the store so got the wrong beans.”

He scooped two spoons of sugar into her mug without asking. Added cream. Stirred it with the butter knife because the spoons were in the dishwasher and he wasn’t unloading that damn thing today.

She perched on the counter. Watched him move around like the kitchen owed him money. He poured her coffee. Passed it over without a word. She smiled at him. He scowled at the butter knife. There was still lemon cake in the fridge. She took it out wordlessly. Set it on the table in its original cardboard box. Harry looked at it like it held secrets.

“We didn’t even do candles.”

“Didn't feel like doing candles.”

“I would’ve for you.”

She blinked. Heart stuttering a little.

“You kissed me instead,” she said.

He nodded. “Better wish.”

She cut two slices. Big ones. Put one in front of him. One for herself. Harry took a bite and let out the biggest sigh ever.

“You really did all that.”

She glanced up. “What?”

“The dinner. The lights. The lemon tree.”

She shrugged.

“Isidora,” he said quietly.

She looked at him now. Harry was staring at his plate. Then, slowly, he set his fork down. Sat back. “I hadn’t seen her in over a decade.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

She didn’t speak. Harry leaned forward again, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his mug. He looked older today. Not in a bad way. Just in that very real, very human way that came after seeing someone who knew you when you were still becoming.

He looked at her. Really looked. “Thank you,” he said.

She nodded once. And because it was him—and because she knew—she didn’t say you’re welcome.Just reached across the table and brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Harry caught her hand. Kissed her knuckles. Held them there for a second too long. They finished the cake in silence.

Listened to Frances thump her way down the hallway and leap onto the windowsill like she’d done it ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. The loft felt full. Not loud. Just full. Like home. She was halfway through her second cup of coffee when she remembered.

Paused. Set the mug down slowly. Harry noticed immediately “What?”

She blinked.

“Lucy’s wedding.”

Harry’s face didn’t change. But something behind his eyes shifted. She saw it. She always saw it.

“It's very soon,” she added. “We forgot.”

He took a breath. Leaned back. Ran a hand over his mouth. Then said, flatly, “I didn’t.”

She tilted her head.

“I ignored it,” he clarified. “That’s different.”

She nodded. Neither of them spoke for a beat. She stared down at the cake box. He looked out the window. She was the first to break.

“I only found out because Lorenzo mentioned it in Florence.”

Harry’s jaw ticked. “I know.”

“Wasn’t even subtle. Said he assumed we were going. That our names were on the list.”

Harry snorted. “We never RSVP’d.”

“Still invited us though.”

His eyes cut to hers. Sharp. Protective. “Of course she did.”

“She probably didn’t think we'd come.”

“She probably hoped you would.”

She paused. Sipped her coffee. Let the taste ground her. Harry was still staring at her. Still unreadable. Still too still. She said it quietly.

“I think we should go.”

He blinked. Then, slowly, “Why?”

She looked up. Met his eyes. And said, simply, “Because I want her to see I’m real. Not just a quote she gave.”

His expression didn’t change. But something broke open anyway, “You don’t owe her anything.”

“I know.”

“She doesn’t deserve to know you.”

“I know.”

Harry set his fork down. Hard. “She’s not kind,” he said. “She’s not even curious. She just wants to catalog you. Reduce you. Turn you into a moment she can outgrow.”

Her lips parted. But she didn’t interrupt.

“And I can’t—” he shook his head once, jaw tight, “—I can’t stomach the idea of you in a room full of people who look at you and only see me.”

His voice cracked a little. Just at the edges. “She doesn’t get to do that.”

“I know.”

She reached for him. Slow. Took his hand. He let her. She squeezed once.

“I just want to go,” she said, “because what we have won’t be erased.”

He looked at her. Breathed through his nose.And said, low and tired and still full of love, “You are the only real thing I’ve got.”

She leaned forward. Kissed his hand. Then his cheek. Then sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. They sat there like that for a long time. Letting the morning settle. Letting the idea of it take root. Letting the tension dissolve into the quiet.

Later, he folded laundry while she organized the kitchen drawer he kept calling “the Bermuda Triangle of expired coupons and batteries that don’t work.”

She found a receipt from 2020. They argued over whether or not to keep a set of napkin rings shaped like tiny gold monkeys. He made her tea without asking. She massaged his shoulder when it started to cramp.

He laid down for a ten-minute nap that turned into forty-five. She tucked a pillow under his head. Frances laid on his chest like a judgmental paperweight. When he woke up, she was watching a documentary about a tree that had survived four natural disasters.

He sat beside her. Didn’t say anything. Just took her hand. Held it. Pressed a kiss to her wrist. They didn’t talk about the wedding again that day. But it lived in the background—like a suitcase by the door. Not packed yet. Not opened. Just there. Waiting.

Harry kissed her twice before bed. Once on the mouth, like always. And once, more softly, on the scar behind her ear. She didn’t ask how he knew it was there. He didn’t offer. But he pulled her into his chest that night tighter than usual. Held her longer. Breathed slower.

And when she murmured, “We don’t have to go,” he just said, quietly,

“I’ll go anywhere with you.”

And he meant it. Which is why, two mornings later, Harry stood in the doorway of their bedroom with his reading glasses perched low on his nose, holding up a pair of his own socks like they had personally betrayed him.

“Tell me again why we’re flying commercial.”

She was cross-legged on the bed, hair still damp from the shower, folding her underwear with a kind of chaotic focus that could only come from mild packing stress. Frances sat beside her, very much in the way, laying directly on top of one of Harry’s folded sweaters like she paid taxes.

“Because,” she said, without looking up, “it’s an adventure.”

“I have a jet.”

“I know.”

“It’s not an ego thing.”

She looked up. “I didn’t say it was.”

“It’s for convenience. Comfort. Logistics.”

“You mean silent boarding, your own espresso machine, and no middle seat panic attacks?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, then tossed the socks dramatically into the suitcase, not answering. She grinned. He scowled. Frances yawned and stretched across his dress shirt like she, too, was choosing chaos.

Danny found out two hours later. Harry had him on speakerphone in the office, the call mostly about a trade negotiation that had gone south until Harry muttered something like “we’ll circle back after I’m back from the Cape.”

The pause was long enough to echo. Danny’s voice cracked through the speaker like it was personally offended.

“Back from where?”

Harry sighed. “Cape Cod.”

Danny’s voice shot up an octave. “You’re going?”

“Yes.”

“To Lucy's wedding?”

“Apparently.”

“You told me you were ignoring it.”

“She changed my mind.”

“Who?”

Harry tilted his head toward the bedroom where she was currently trying to Tetris three kinds of travel sized serums and a jade roller into a toiletry bag like it was a survival kit.

“My girlfriend,” he said dryly.

Danny groaned. “Oh my God, Harry. You’re going to be on the cover of People magazine before the weekend ends. They’ll call it ‘Revenge Romance’ or something equally disgusting.”

Harry didn’t flinch. She, however, popped her head into the office, holding up two dresses. “Which one?”

Harry pointed at the darker one without hesitation.

Danny kept talking. “Lucy's going to lose her mind when she sees you two together.”

“She’ll survive.”

“You’re underestimating her.”

Harry turned the speaker off with one tap. Not out of rudeness. Just out of peace. Then looked up at her. “I like the neckline on that one.”

She smiled. “Then it’s going in.”

Packing took longer than expected. Mostly because she kept second-guessing everything she pulled from her closet.

“This looks too…serious.”

“That’s a black turtleneck.”

“Exactly. I look like I’m coming to audit the vows.”

Harry was stretched out on the bed by this point, one arm behind his head, watching her in the same quiet way he read long articles about economic policy—with slow, deliberate attention and the occasional smirk.

“Just wear something you feel good in.”

She pulled another hanger out. “I don’t feel good in anything. Or look good in anything.”

“That’s not true.”

She paused. Looked at him. He was staring at her in that way he always did when she wasn’t looking.

“You always look good in my shirts,” he said.

She smiled. “Not wearing your shirt to the wedding.”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “You’d look better than every bride in history.”

She scoffed. “Okay, now you’re just lying.”

Harry kissed the back of her neck. “You’re the only truth I’ve got.”

She rolled her eyes. But the blush gave her away. He took her shopping the next afternoon.

She hadn’t planned on it—had told him not to worry, that she’d figure something out—but Harry, in his infinite stubbornness, had watched her spiral for two straight nights and finally said, “Get dressed. You need air and options.”

So they went. Not to anywhere flashy. Just a boutique a few blocks away, one she’d only ever walked past, the kind of place that didn’t have mannequins, just racks of linen and silk and things that looked better in candlelight.

Harry held the door for her. Didn’t hover. Just sat in the corner with his reading glasses on, answering emails with a phone in one hand and holding her tea in the other, occasionally looking up just to see how she moved in something.

“Too tight?” he asked once.

She twisted in the mirror. “Too Catholic school.”

“Too short?”

“Too prom.”

He looked up from his phone, slid the glasses off, and said, “Show me.”

She stepped out from behind the curtain in a dark green slip dress, simple and soft with a low back and thin straps. Harry blinked. Slowly set his phone down. Didn’t speak.

“Too much?” she asked, fingers brushing the fabric.

He stood. Walked over. Circled her once. Ran a hand lightly over her waist.

Then whispered, “Too perfect.”

She blushed so hard the dressing room mirror fogged.

Harry chose an old suit. He told her this over toast.

“I’m not buying anything new.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not giving that woman another dollar’s worth of silk.”

She laughed. Harry didn’t.

“I wore this suit when I negotiated my first billion-dollar deal,” he said.

She raised a brow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“It was.”

She shook her head, smiling into her coffee. The night before the flight, Harry did a full “old man prep sweep” of the apartment. Locked every window. Checked the oven three times. Told Frances he loved her like she was about to join the Marines. Then folded their passports and tucked them in a leather envelope she didn’t even know he owned.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, watching him zip her suitcase with more care than he gave quarterly earnings.

Harry looked up. “Many times.”

She blinked.

“Which means I do it right.”

“You think I’m going to forget my ID or something?”

“I think if someone tries to mess with you at security, I’m going to flip a table.”

She laughed. “Harry—”

“I’m serious. I know you said it’s supposed to be an adventure, but if some twelve-year-old TSA agent pulls you aside for a random check, I will make headlines.”

She crossed the room. Wrapped her arms around his waist. Looked up. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

“I know.”

She kissed him. Slow. Soft. He kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d packed. Their flight left the next morning.

Frances was left in the care of Maya, who came by at 6am with two bags full of bagels and two books Harry had recommended a month ago.

“Take care of her,” Harry said, petting the cat like he was going off to war.

Maya rolled her eyes. “She’s not dying.”

“She’s sensitive.”

“I'll take good care of her.”

“Good luck.”

Then he hugged Maya—quickly, like he still wasn’t quite sure how to handle being fond of people under thirty. They took a car to the airport. It was quiet.

Harry kept one hand on her thigh the entire time. Not possessive. Just present. At the gate, he watched people board like they were enemies. Thank god this flight was less than two hours.

She nudged him gently. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The people-hating thing.”

“I’m observing.”

“You’re scowling.”

He didn’t deny it. She slipped her hand into his.

“Just think,” she said. “In two hours, we’ll be in Cape Cod, probably eating something we can’t pronounce.”

Harry smiled. Then kissed her temple.

“God, I love you.”

She smiled too. “Good.”

They boarded together. Found their first-class seats. Harry adjusted her blanket before his own. She fell asleep on his shoulder before the plane even left the runway. Stating she needs to rest her eyes.

He stayed awake. Not because he was nervous anymore. But because he wanted to be the first thing she saw when she woke up. And when she did—about twenty minutes into the flight, eyes bleary, smile soft—he handed her a warm towel from the tray and said,

“Adventure’s going well so far.”

She laughed. Pressed a kiss to his jaw. And settled in again. Still flying. Still with him. Still in love. Frances would’ve been horrified. But they didn’t care. The plane landed just after noon. A short flight. Barely long enough for a second nap. Still, Harry stood first, shielding her with one arm and retrieving her bag with the other like turbulence had personally offended him.

“You didn’t even sleep,” she said, watching him shove his own carry-on down from the overhead bin.

Harry shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

“You just stared at me the whole flight?”

“I stare at you all the time.”

“You’re such a creep.”

He handed her the bag with one hand and kissed the side of her head with the other. “You like it.”

She did. Of course she did. He grabbed everything. Obviously. Her tote, his own bag, the two rolling suitcases. The air outside the plane was crisp. Clean. Different from Manhattan’s density. Cape Cod smelled like salt, pine, and money that had been washed a few times to look like old summer charm.

The airport was small—tiny, really. More like a lobby with a landing strip. No crowd, no paparazzi, just a few other travelers and one girl standing near the restroom sign, jaw halfway to the floor.

She didn’t notice the girl staring right away. Too distracted by the way Harry adjusted her tote on his shoulder, muttering something about the straps being cheap as hell and you need a new one, I’ll get it. But when she did glance up—only for a second—she clocked the girl staring. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

And for a brief moment, she wondered if it was a Harry Castillo thing. It happened sometimes. Especially in Manhattan. Especially when he wore those jeans that sat a little too well on his hips. Once, a woman in Whole Foods dropped an entire rotisserie chicken when Harry bent over to grab organic lentils. So she just smiled politely. Turned away. Let it go.

She didn’t know that the girl was one of Lucy’s bridesmaids. Didn’t know that she’d just recognized him—the man Lucy used to cry about after wine, the one she said ruined her for love, the one they never thought would actually show. And she definitely didn’t know that as they walked toward the exit, Harry’s suit bag trailing behind him and her hand casually resting at the base of his back, the girl raised her phone.

Snapped a photo. And sent it. To Lucy.

Lucy was in a robe. Feet in warm water.

One hand holding a mimosa. The other extended for a manicure. Her bridesmaids were buzzing around the spa suite—some taking selfies, others coordinating the evening's rehearsal schedule.

She hadn’t looked at her phone in twenty minutes. Then it buzzed. One photo. One message.

He’s here. With her.

Lucy stared at the screen. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Her nail tech paused, mid-polish. “Everything okay?”

Lucy forced a smile. “Yeah. Just…a surprise.”

Back at the airport, her and Harry were standing on the curb, waiting for the car James had sent.

Harry had his sunglasses on. The soft, rounded pair he only wore on vacations. She had tucked herself into his side like a vine curling around a stone column.

She reached into her bag. “I have gum.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think I want gum?”

“You keep grinding your teeth.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “So do most billionaires.”

“Not like you.”

He plucked the gum from her hand. “Still taking it.”

“Uh huh.”

The breeze picked up. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Harry did the other side for her, knuckles brushing her cheek.

“You cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“You will be.”

“I’m not—”

He slipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders anyway. It was soft. Black. Worn to hell. It smelled like him. She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Harry leaned close. “Always cold when you travel.”

“Not true.”

“Your hands were freezing on the plane.”

“Oh were they?”

“Exactly.”

He smirked. Then leaned in. Kissed her temple once. Soft. Solid. Like he wasn’t thinking about anyone else. And he wasn’t. The car arrived ten minutes later. It wasn’t James—just a driver he’d trained, sent out from New York two days earlier. The man greeted them with a nervous smile, took Harry’s bag with shaking hands, and said, “It’s an honor, sir. Big fan of your—um—your…”

“Don’t,” Harry said, sliding into the backseat with her already curled beside him.

“Right,” the driver nodded, closing the door carefully. “Just driving. Got it.”

Harry didn’t talk on the ride. Didn’t look at his phone. Just stared out the window, one hand resting on her thigh, thumb brushing absent-minded circles. She watched the coastline pass. Noticed the clapboard houses. The white fences. The kids on bikes. It was all too calm. Too perfect. Harry noticed it too.

“This place is fake,” he muttered.

She laughed. “It’s summer money, Harry. It’s supposed to look like a magazine ad.”

He scoffed. “I see a single distressed wooden sign that says ‘live laugh love’ and I’m burning it down.”

Their rental was a cottage on a quiet street, chosen by her and Harry. They found it scrolling late one night. 

“You have taste,” Harry admitted as he walked through the door, setting the bags down and immediately checking the locks.

“I know.”

“Where do you think the wine is?”

“Fridge. Hopefully .”

“Your taste just improved.”

She wandered toward the kitchen while Harry made a full perimeter sweep, checking windows and blinds and muttering under his breath about open-concept homes being unsafe.

She poured him a glass. He accepted it with a kiss to her temple. They didn’t unpack. Just left everything where it was, kicked off their shoes, and collapsed onto the too-soft couch in the living room with her legs thrown over his lap and Frances’s absence suddenly very noticeable.

“I miss her,” she said, scrolling through the photo Maya had sent earlier of the cat watching Jeopardy like she understood it.

“She doesn’t miss us.”

“She misses me.”

“She’s probably napping on my shirts.”

“You left one out for her on purpose.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just sipped his wine. Pulled her closer. They didn’t mention Lucy. Not yet. Not on the first night. Not when the air smelled like sea salt and the windows were open and Harry’s hand stayed on her hip like a reassurance.

He kissed her shoulder when she brushed her teeth. Folded her pajamas before she wore them. Let her fall asleep first. Then laid there for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking. But not about Lucy. About her. And how much he hated the thought of anyone like Lucy looking at someone like her with even a fraction of judgment.

The wedding was tomorrow. But for now—

She was in his arms. The air was clean. And he was still hers. Disgustingly, completely, hers. Even in Cape Cod. Even in enemy territory. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They woke slowly the next day. The kind of morning where time didn’t press. Where the sunlight came in gentle and golden through gauzy curtains, brushing across the hardwood like a whisper. The breeze smelled like sea salt. Somewhere outside, a bird was having a very loud opinion. Harry’s arm was draped across her waist, his face still tucked into the curve of her neck, breath warm and steady. She shifted slightly.

And without opening his eyes, he said, “Stay.”

She smiled. “I have to pee.”

“Pee fast. Come back.”

She slid out from beneath the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. When she returned, Harry was lying on his back now, eyes open, hair a complete mess. One arm behind his head. The other reaching for her without looking.

She climbed back in, curled beside him. They laid there like that for a while. Neither of them speaking.

Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice still low and raspy with sleep.

“That’s always dangerous.”

He ignored her. His thumb was tracing a slow, idle line along the inside of her forearm.

“If I asked you to marry me,” he murmured, “would you say yes?”

She turned her head. Blinking. Heart doing a small, ridiculous stutter. He wasn’t even looking at her. Just watching the ceiling like it might hold the answer for him.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re asking me that on the morning we’re going to your ex’s wedding?”

“Timing’s terrible, yeah.”

“But?”

“But I need to know.”

She stared at him. Tried to read whatever storm was happening behind his eyes. He was always like this—softest when he was trying not to be. Asking the hardest questions like they were offhand comments. She reached for his hand. Laced their fingers. Squeezed once.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d say yes.”

Harry turned his head. Looked at her. Not surprised. Just…relieved. And stupidly, disgustingly in love. He leaned in. Kissed her once, just barely.

“I wouldn’t make you wear white,” he murmured. “Unless you wanted to.”

She laughed. “You think I’d let you have a say in what I wear?”

He grunted. “True.”

She laid her head on his chest. “Maybe I’ll wear red,” she said.

“Whatever you wear, I’ll fucking pass out.”

“Oh you're into it.”

“I’m into you.” That earned a grin. And then—

The shower. Which, to be clear, had not been intended to be that kind of shower. But Harry was a menace. He turned on the water first. Made sure it wasn’t scalding. Set her towel on the warmer like a man who had been raised to expect nothing and now gave everything. When she stepped in—already flushed from the warmth and still a little dazed from what he’d asked in bed—he pulled her close under the spray, arms sliding around her waist.

“I’m nervous,” she whispered.

Harry kissed her temple. “I know.”

“I don’t want to see her.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I will.”

Harry didn’t reply. Just reached for the shampoo and started massaging it into her hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. She relaxed under his touch.

“You’ll stay with me the whole time?”

His fingers moved down the back of her neck. “I’ll be glued to your hip.”

“I mean it, Harry.”

“So do I.”

They washed slowly. Towels traded. Water beading down his back. Her fingers brushing the scar on his nose, the one he still refused to explain. She sat on the bathroom counter in a robe while he shaved.

He grumbled when he nicked himself. Again. She offered a Hello Kitty bandaid from her travel pouch. He said no. She stuck it on him anyway.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“It’s dignity loss.”

Harry glared. But he didn’t take it off.

She got dressed first. Dark green silk. Simple. Clean. Slit at the side that hit just high enough to feel daring, low enough to stay elegant. Thin straps. Slightly open back. Harry just stared when she stepped out of the bedroom. Didn’t say anything at first. Just let his eyes move over her like prayer. Then—

“You’re not real.”

She adjusted one of the straps. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a crime.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“Not like this.”

She turned.

“Zipper?”

He stepped forward. Pulled it up slowly. Then leaned down. Kissed the back of her neck.

“You sure about this?” he murmured.

She met his eyes in the mirror.

“As long as you’re next to me.”

Harry changed next. Black suit. Old. Worn in the elbows. A little snug across the shoulders now. He buttoned it slowly. Pulled on the white silk tie she’d picked out. She watched from the armchair, chin on her hand.

“You look handsome.”

“I look like a man going to an ex’s wedding.”

“You look like a man with the best girl in the room.”

That got a twitch at his mouth. He checked his watch. “Car should be here soon.”

She stood. Smoothed the front of his jacket. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“You’re enough.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being sappy.”

“I’m allowed to be.”

“Since when?”

“Since you said yes.”

She didn’t reply. Just pressed her forehead to his chest. And for a minute, they stayed like that. No wedding. No Lucy. No noise. Just them. And the quiet. At exactly 3:55, the car pulled up. Harry held the door open for her. She slipped in. Then he followed. Settled beside her. Took her hand. Laced their fingers. Neither of them spoke.

But in that silence— In that breathless, careful quiet— There was everything. Even the parts they hadn’t said yet. Even the storm that might wait ahead. Because it didn’t matter. They were already here. Together. And nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to take that away. Not even today.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of a manicured gravel drive. It was a backyard venue—tasteful, coastal, charming in that I have generational wealth kind of way. Harry stepped out first. Buttoned his old dark coat. Reached back in for her hand.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “But let’s go.”

He held her hand tightly. And together, they stepped into enemy territory. The first thing she noticed was the breeze. Soft. Warm. Salt-laced. It danced along the hem of her dark green dress and tugged at the edges of Harry’s collar.

The second thing she noticed was how quiet it got the second they walked in. Conversation dulled. Laughter paused. Like someone had pressed mute.Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance at the people who were suddenly pretending not to stare. He simply tucked her hand tighter into the crook of his arm and walked like he owned the place. She matched his stride. Head high. Shoulders back. Even if her stomach was buzzing like a hornet’s nest.

The rows of white folding chairs were slowly filling. There was an open bar tucked under a pergola and floral arrangements shaped like they cost someone’s salary. A small quartet played something indistinct and romantic in the distance.

Her heels sank slightly into the grass as they crossed toward the seating area, passing a man who looked like he recognized Harry but wasn’t sure whether to say it out loud.

Then—

“Holy shit,” someone whispered.

She didn’t look. Harry did. Just once. Just enough for whoever said it to shrink back into their seat. They settled into the third row. Close enough to make a point. Far enough to keep some distance. Harry sat beside her like a bodyguard in a suit that didn’t quite fit anymore, jaw tight, sunglasses still on.

“Do I need to start punching groomsmen?” he murmured.

She shook her head. Then leaned in and whispered, “This might’ve been a mistake.”

Harry turned. Brushed a thumb against her wrist. “It wasn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’d rather be here—with you—than wondering what would’ve happened if we’d stayed home.”

She stared at him. Let the words settle. Then nodded once. Still unsure. But less alone.

Then— She saw her. Livia. Hair too shiny. Dress too pink. Expression flickering from smug to what the actual fuck the second her eyes landed on them. She nudged Paolo. Paolo blinked like he’d seen a ghost.

Harry’s hand slid across her lap. Rested firmly on her thigh.

“Ignore them,” he said.

“They’re annoying.”

“They’re pathetic.”

She smiled faintly. Noticed Livia turning sharply away when Harry finally glanced in her direction like a man debating whether to call in an airstrike. They looked absurd. The kind of rich people who got caught cheating and just threw more parties to distract from it. Paolo looked like he’d aged five years. Livia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Good.

“Harry?”

A familiar voice. She turned. Francesca. In a light blue dress, hair piled up messily, holding a program and blinking like she couldn’t believe it. Beside her, Luca looked equally stunned.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Francesca whispered.

Harry stood. Kissed her cheek. “Changed my mind.”

Francesca glanced at her. Then at Harry. Then back again. Her face softened.

“You both look incredible,” Francesca said.

She smiled. “We’re trying to survive.”

Luca snorted. “Welcome to the party.”

They all took their seats together. Four in a row.

Harry kept his hand on her leg the entire time. Not possessively. Just…there. Like a grounding wire. Then—

Lucy’s father walked past. Tall. Lean. Hair slicked back. He gave Harry a long, pointed glare. She caught it. So did Harry. But he didn’t blink. Didn’t rise. Didn’t acknowledge him. Just stared back until the man looked away. Lucy’s mother followed seconds later. And—surprisingly—smiled.

“Harry,” she said softly, stopping beside their row. “I didn’t think we’d see you.”

“You have,” Harry said flatly.

She waited. Braced. But Lucy’s mother turned to her. Offered a hand.

“You must be her.”

She blinked.

“Welcome.”

Then she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “You’ve given him softness. I can see it from here.”

Then she walked away. Harry blinked once.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I need a drink,” he muttered.

The ceremony was starting. People quieted. The quartet shifted to something sweet and slow. A woman stepped up to the front with a microphone.

“Please rise.”

Everyone stood. She adjusted her dress. Held her breath. The groomsmen started to file out. One by one. She watched with vague interest until—

Her heart stopped. The groom. Tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes. A jaw she hadn’t seen in almost ten years. And she knew him. Every part. It was John. Her John. Not hers, obviously. Not now. Not ever.

But—

The same John who used to carry trays at her father's charity events. The same John who slipped cupcakes into her room after dinner when her mother said she was “getting pudgy.” The same John who once found her crying in the garden after a party and told her that “some people survive by being cruel—and some survive by hiding.”

The same John who had looked at her like she was breakable. Now— He was walking down the aisle. Looking confident. Looking happy. Looking like he’d been reborn. She didn’t breathe. Harry leaned down.

“You okay?”

She nodded too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t say I know the groom. Didn’t say he used to know every version of me I’ve tried to forget. Because she didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know what it changed. But her hands were shaking.

And Harry noticed. Of course he did. He reached for them. Covered hers with both of his. Held them. Didn’t ask again. Then came the bridesmaids. Tall. Polished. Looking like Instagram filters. She recognized one. Maybe from the airport. Didn’t matter.

Then— Lucy. On her father’s arm. In a dress that looked like it had a publicist. Chin high. Smile soft. Confident. Like she knew what she was walking toward. Like this was the ending she’d always wanted.

The guests all turned. Photos snapped. The moment paused. Lucy’s eyes swept the rows. And landed on Harry. And her.

Lucy faltered. Just slightly. One step. But it was enough. She caught it. So did Harry next to her. His grip on her hand tightened. She squeezed back.

Lucy recovered. Kept walking. They all sat. The officiant cleared their throat. And the ceremony began.

But she— She couldn’t stop staring at John. Couldn’t stop remembering. Couldn’t stop thinking—

This is the man who saw me before I had to become someone else. And he’s marrying Lucy. And I am sitting here beside Harry fucking Castillo. And none of this feels real.

She didn’t say anything during the ceremony. Didn’t speak. Didn’t whisper. Just sat still. Silent. Thinking. And Harry didn’t press. He just kept holding her hand. Steady. Warm. Like a vow.

And when she leaned into him slightly— When she let her head rest on his shoulder for just a moment— He pressed a kiss to her temple. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. He didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. But he could feel it. Something had shifted.

And whatever it was— He would protect her from it. Even if he had to do it without knowing the name. Because she was his. And that was the only thing that mattered. Even here. Even now. Even at his ex’s wedding. With the past walking down the aisle. And still— He wouldn’t have traded it. Not for anything.

The officiant cleared his throat with the kind of authority that suggested he’d been officiating weddings for thirty years and had a story about every one of them.

“Dearly beloved,” he began, the sun catching on his glasses as the wind shifted just slightly, rustling the linen of Lucy’s dress and the program in everyone's laps. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of two souls.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose. Harry still had one hand over both of hers. Thumb brushing the side of her palm absentmindedly, like he wasn’t really thinking about it. Like it was just… instinct now. Natural.

She didn’t dare look at Lucy yet. She was still reeling from John. From the wave of old memory that had crashed like a slap across the front of her brain.

John. The man who used to pass her cookies wrapped in napkins when she wasn’t allowed dessert. The man who once lent her a sweater when her mother made her wear a dress two sizes too small. The man who had seen her at her loneliest, at her skinniest, at her most afraid—and never once judged her for it.

And now— He was holding Lucy’s hands. She tried to focus on the priest.

“In love, we find not perfection,” the man was saying, “but acceptance. Grace. Patience. A partner not to complete us—but to recognize what is already complete.”

Harry shifted beside her. Not uncomfortably. Not restlessly. Just enough to slide his arm across the back of her chair. His thumb brushed the bare skin of her shoulder. He didn’t look at Lucy. Not once.

But Lucy…

Lucy kept looking at him. It wasn’t obvious. Not overt. But she saw it.

The way Lucy's eyes flicked past the guests while the priest talked. The way her fingers tightened around John’s just slightly, like she’d remembered something. Like Lucy remembered him.

It made her stomach coil. Not with jealousy. Not even with anger. Just that old, sinking ache of being seen—but not seen back. Like Lucy still didn’t quite register that Harry wasn’t hers anymore. That he hadn’t been for a long time. That even when he had been, he’d never been hers like this.

Because now—he was sitting beside someone who knew what kind of coffee he liked when he was stressed. Who knew he rubbed his temples when he was thinking about old memories. Who knew he talked in his sleep when he was dreaming about his mother.

Lucy had known a version of Harry. The polished one. The corporate myth. The one with cufflinks and PR statements and a tongue sharp enough to bankrupt cities.

But her? The woman sitting next to him knew the one who forgot his towel after a shower. The one who sang along to Sinatra when he thought no one was listening. The one who made her lemon toast at midnight and read novels over her shoulder just to be close.

The priest continued. “Now, Lucy and John have chosen to write their own vows,” he said. “Lucy?”

Lucy smiled. A soft, composed smile. Took the mic from him with a little thank you and turned to face John. She braced. Lucy began.

“I don’t know if I believe in soulmates,” she said, voice clear, echoing faintly beneath the pergola strung with white roses. “I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I do believe in timing. In second chances. In the way people can walk into your life twice—and the second time, you’re ready.”

Lucy paused. Smiled again. She felt Harry’s hand twitch slightly. Not much. Just… enough.

“I’ve known a lot of versions of myself,” Lucy continued. “Some I loved. Some I didn’t. But you, John… you saw all of them. And you didn’t flinch. You waited for me. You held space. You didn’t rush me toward who you wanted me to be. You just let me arrive.”

She blinked slowly. She felt it before she saw it. That glance. Quick. Surgical. Right in their direction. Lucy didn’t say Harry’s name. Of course not. But her eyes found him. Mid-sentence. And stayed there for a second too long.

“I used to think love was a game of leverage,” Lucy said, still looking straight through the crowd. “Power. Strategy. But it’s not. It’s knowing that even when someone sees your ugliest, they’ll stay.”

John squeezed her hand. Lucy looked back at him. And she didn’t miss the way John followed Lucy's gaze. How his brow furrowed. Just barely. How his eyes flicked—quick, sharp—to the third row. Where Harry sat like a statue, expression unreadable, lips pressed into a single line.

Harry hadn’t looked at Lucy once. John noticed. She could see him noticing.

Lucy finished her vows with a smile, her voice gentler now. “You make me feel like I don’t have to perform anymore. And that’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

Polite applause followed. A few sniffles. The priest smiled.

Then—“John?”

He took the mic with a nod. Looked at Lucy. And for a second—Just a second—She saw it. The calculation. The question.

Like John was still replaying that glance she’d made. Like he was realizing that maybe—just maybe—his bride was still haunted and not his. He recovered quickly.

“Lucy,” he said. “You are—chaos.”

The crowd laughed. Lucy rolled her eyes. But John smiled warmly.

“You are also order. You are too many thoughts at once. You are late-night texts about documentaries. You are Sunday walks that last six hours. You are questions no one else asks, and the woman who taught me that love isn’t about feeling safe—it’s about choosing to stay.”

She exhaled. Because this was real. John loved her. You could tell. Even if Lucy hadn’t looked at him the whole time. Even if Lucy still hadn’t quite let go.

The girl next to Harry turned slightly. Looked at him. And there he was. Watching her. Not the vows. Not the bride. Just—her. His eyes met hers. And she smiled. Tired. Amused. Something darker beneath it.

Harry leaned down. Brushed his lips over her ear.

“She could be marrying God,” he whispered, “and I’d still want you.”

Her chest stuttered. She turned to him.

“Harry—”

“No,” he said. “I mean it. There’s no version of this where I look back.”

She swallowed. Then nodded. And faced forward again.

Just in time for the rings. The rest of the ceremony passed in soft waves. The officiant blessed the union. The wind picked up. A bridesmaid’s dress blew sideways and someone’s baby started crying. But the couple didn’t notice.

They kissed. Everyone clapped. And the music started. But she—she didn’t feel relieved. She felt like a door had just opened somewhere behind her.  And whatever was waiting on the other side? Was walking toward her now. Quiet. Patient. Familiar. And wearing a tux. The moment the music began, the spell broke.

Chairs scraped against the deck. Shoes shifted. People stood, stretched, whispered. The sky overhead was soft and gold, the kind of sunset only coastal towns could pull off, and yet no one seemed to notice it.

They were too busy watching them. Too busy pretending not to watch them. Harry and the girl he came with. The woman who wasn’t Lucy.

Francesca leaned over as she rose, adjusting the straps of her pale green dress and whispering, “Well, that was subtle.”

She blinked. “What?”

Francesca nodded in Lucy’s direction. “The longing gazes. The not-so-covert micromanaging of your proximity to her ex. Classic wedding pettiness.”

She sighed softly.

Luca, straightening his suit jacket on Francesca's other side, added, “At least you got a front-row seat to the performance of the year. She almost had me with the ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ bit.”

Harry didn’t comment. He stood up slowly, buttoned his suit jacket, and then—without looking at Lucy—offered his hand to his girl. She took it without hesitation.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, low and quiet, for her ears only.

She nodded. “Yeah. Let’s.”

Francesca and Luca exchanged glances, already reading the room, “We’ll see you at the reception?” Francesca asked, her tone laced with something knowing, something gentle.

Harry gave a single, quiet nod. “Of course.”

They parted ways at the edge of the deck, Harry guiding her toward the small gravel lot where their sleek black car waited—a rental, but decent. The driver, ever thoughtful, had made sure the air conditioning was already on.

Harry opened the door for her first. As always. She slid in quietly. Waited until he joined her and closed the door before letting herself breathe. The car pulled away slowly. Soft jazz played through the speakers.

She stared at her lap. Harry watched her for a second. Then said, “You were quiet back there.”

She nodded once. Still didn’t look at him. His hand found hers. Thumb brushing the top of it. Steady. Warm. Present.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, voice quiet. Patient.

She nodded again. Then—finally—turned to him.

“I know John.”

Harry didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just kept holding her hand.

“I mean—” she continued, voice soft, a little hoarse, “I knew him. When I was a kid. He used to work the events at our house. Before everything... before my dad got caught. Before the headlines. The bankruptcy. Teddy—”

She stopped. Swallowed. Harry shifted toward her slightly, his body angled, eyes locked on hers. She exhaled, steadying herself.

“I was, like, fifteen? Sixteen? My mom… she didn’t let me eat. Not really. Not carbs. Not sugar. Not anything that would make me ‘pudgy.’ She was obsessed with how I looked, how we looked as a family. And John—he worked the kitchen during these fundraisers. He’d sneak me food. Muffins. Sandwiches. Once, a piece of birthday cake.

Harry said nothing. But his hand tightened around hers. She didn’t cry. She didn’t need to. She’d done all her crying years ago.

“He was kind,” she whispered. “I didn’t think about him for years. Not until I saw him. In that tux. Walking down the aisle. Holding Lucy’s hand like he’d never done anything else.”

Harry was still watching her. Unmoving. So she continued.

“I didn’t want to tell you before,” she said, “because it didn’t feel important. But now... I don’t know. I think maybe it is. Not because I feel anything for him. I don’t. But because it felt... full circle, in a way. Like I’d walked into someone else’s story by accident.”

Harry reached for her other hand. Held both now. His gaze was steady.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, his voice low and slow in the dim car light.

She nodded. Harry took a breath. “I love you.”

She blinked.

“I know that’s not an answer,” he said. “But it’s the root of every one I could give you. I love you. Not in the convenient way. Not in the performative way. I love you in the you-could-set-this-car-on-fire-and-I’d-still-crawl-through-glass-to-get-to-you way.”

Her chest stuttered.

“I don’t care who he is,” Harry said. “I don’t care what he did for you back then. I’m grateful someone was kind to you when you needed it. But that’s all it is. That’s all it’ll ever be. A footnote.”

She swallowed. “You’re not mad?”

His brows lifted. “Why the fuck would I be mad? Because the man marrying my ex was decent to the woman I love when she was a child?”

Her lips curved, just slightly. “I don’t know. You get a little murdery sometimes.”

Harry smirked.

“That’s true.”

He leaned forward. Kissed the top of her hand.

Then added, “But not this time.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

He was in an old suit. The one he wore when they first met, she realized. The one with the faint thread pulled near the seam and the button that was slightly chipped. He hadn’t bought anything new. He wouldn’t have—not for this. Not for Lucy. But somehow, the suit looked better now. Softer. Lived-in. He looked better now. Because he was hers.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For listening.”

Harry brushed his thumb across the inside of her wrist. “For always.”

They drove in silence after that. Not heavy silence. Just the kind that lingered gently between people who understood each other without needing to fill the air with more than presence.

When they reached the venue—an ocean-side estate with gauze-draped tents and a horizon that looked painted—they sat in the car for another moment before getting out.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. Then opened the door. And stepped out into the kind of dusk that felt biblical. Harry followed. Buttoned his jacket. Then looked at her.

“You’re the only good thing in my life” he said softly.

She smiled. Took his hand. And together, they walked up the steps toward the reception. Ready. Unshaken. Untouchable. Even here. Especially here.

The reception was tucked behind the main house—string lights draped between trees, linen-covered tables arranged in soft curves around a makeshift dance floor that had clearly been installed just for the event. The ocean was just visible over the ridge, the breeze warm and salt-sweet, the kind of night someone might dream up just to pretend their life had always been beautiful.

Francesca and Luca were already there, Francesca barefoot with her heels hanging from two fingers, her curls pinned back but barely, sipping something white and cold. Luca stood beside her in a linen suit that looked like it had been stolen off the set of The Talented Mr. Ripley, sunglasses still tucked into the neck of his shirt like it was midday.

When they spotted her and Harry, Francesca lit up and waved them over like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“There you are,” she said, looping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You survived. You both survived. I’m honestly impressed.”

Harry offered Luca a nod and the two did the customary handshake-hug combo, the kind men used when they liked each other more than they admitted.

“Drinks?” Luca asked.

Harry nodded once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He touched her hip briefly, murmured, “Be right back,” before following Luca toward the bar. He didn’t look back, but his hand lingered on her waist just a second longer than necessary before he let go. He didn't want to let go.

Francesca sighed, looping her arm through her's as they made their way to their assigned table near the center, not too far from the dance floor but tucked enough to keep a little distance.

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Francesca said breezily, not cruelly, just as fact. “But only because you look better than anyone else here.”

She snorted softly. “They’re talking because I’m here with him.”

“Well,” Francesca said, settling into her chair and crossing her legs with a dramatic flourish, “that too. But honestly? They should be so lucky.”

She looked around subtly. And sure enough—eyes. Not a lot. Not direct. But there. Women in pastel. Men with thinning hair and sharp shoes. Bridesmaids whispering like they hadn’t been caught red-handed giving side-eyes during the ceremony.

Francesca sipped her drink. “You’re making them all spiral. You know that, right?”

“I don’t want to make anyone spiral.”

“Of course you don’t. But that’s why it’s working.”

Before she could respond, Luca and Harry returned, each with two glasses balanced between their fingers like it was a routine. Harry handed her one without a word. Cold. Pale. Sparkling. Probably something expensive he already clocked on the menu.

He sat beside her, suit jacket already open, tie a little looser than earlier. “Sauvignon Blanc. You’ll like it.”

She took a sip. He was right. Francesca and Luca fell into a quiet conversation on the other side of the table, their chairs angled toward each other in that familiar, unhurried way of people who’ve known each other through too many different lives.

Harry leaned close. “You good?”

She nodded. “You?”

His eyes flicked over her face, cataloging.

“I will be,” he said, then added softly, “as long as you’re here.”

It didn’t matter that people were watching. It didn’t matter that they were at the wedding of his ex. He only looked at her.

The party truly began when Lucy and John made their official entrance. The music shifted. The lights dimmed just slightly. People stood. Glasses raised. And through the wide garden doors, Lucy appeared again—no longer in her formal wedding gown, but now in a slinkier, champagne-colored dress that shimmered as she walked. Her hair had been let down. Her shoes were different too—lower, simpler, probably because her feet were blistered. John followed behind her, suit jacket off, shirt open at the collar, hand casually resting on her lower back.

She felt Harry’s body go subtly still beside her. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t tense. But he watched her. Only her. Barley glanced at Lucy. And Lucy? Well, Lucy had clearly been waiting for the moment to see who was watching her walk in as someone’s wife. Her gaze swept the room. Too casually. And then it landed on Harry. And it stuck.

Long enough that Francesca muttered under her breath, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be messy.”

But her? She didn’t flinch. Because Harry—her Harry, only hers—wasn’t looking back. Not the way Lucy wanted. He saw her. Of course he did. But his hand stayed on her thigh, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles through the silk of her dress. And when Lucy’s stare lingered too long, he turned slightly—to her, only to her—and asked, low and dry,

“You want the steak or the sea bass?”

She smiled. “Bass.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m not letting you eat beef at a wedding where she’s in charge of the menu.”

Lucy and John made their rounds. Toasts were offered. Champagne was refilled. The DJ—clearly someone’s cousin—announced the first dance and couples began to drift toward the open floor.

She stayed in her seat, eyes following the soft blur of movement and fabric. Harry didn’t press her to dance. He never would unless she asked. He just sat close, hand on her leg, his other curled around his glass, leaning slightly so no one else could see him looking at her.

“You know,” he murmured, lips barely brushing the edge of her ear, “if I didn’t love you already, I’d fall in love with you just for surviving this.”

She laughed softly. “And if I wasn’t already obsessed with you, I’d be falling in love with you for bringing me to your ex’s wedding and still managing to make me feel like I’m the only one here.”

“You are the only one here.”

“You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

He tilted her chin gently, just enough so she had to look him in the eye.

“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I mean it.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the ocean breeze. Or the way his voice dropped an octave when he got sincere. But something in her heart did a little flutter. A quiet, private flutter no one else could see. Because even now—even here—he made her feel untouched. Untouchable.

Luca nudged them a few minutes later, grinning. “Dance with us. Come on. Francesca says she refuses to be the only woman out there with a man who steps on her feet.” Francesca shot him a glare but offered her hand anyway.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “You want to?”

She looked at him. Then nodded. “Only if you don’t step on mine.”

“I’m old, not uncoordinated.”

He stood and helped her up, hand firm in hers, his other settling instinctively at the small of her back like it always did. They moved together easily. Naturally. Even without music, she’d follow him anywhere. Especially here. And Harry? Harry held her close on that dance floor, surrounded by whispers and stares and the ghosts of relationships that never made it. Because in the end, none of it mattered. She was in his arms. And the rest of the world could burn.

The reception had bled into its second hour like it had somewhere better to be. The string lights overhead twinkled in warm gold as dusk finally gave up and slipped into night. The air was thick with salt and champagne, every table crowded with plates half-finished and stories half-true. Someone's cousin had already kicked off her heels and was dancing barefoot near the bar, and the playlist had shifted from jazz to something that sounded suspiciously like early-2000s pop.

She was seated again with Harry at the far end of the garden reception, their table nestled into a curve of candles and wildflowers. Francesca and Luca were next to them, Luca now with his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, talking animatedly with Harry about the logistics of moving a vineyard from Italy to upstate New York.

Francesca was on her second glass of white and already giving her looks that said “are you good?” every time someone at another table shot them a glance too long.

Because they were being watched. Of course they were. Soft, covert glances. Half-turns. Murmured questions behind manicured hands. Not loud enough to call attention, but clear enough to send a chill up her spine. Harry noticed too. He always did.

So he shifted slightly in his seat, his arm sliding along the back of her chair until his fingers hooked over her shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles at the edge of her collarbone. A quiet kind of claim.

“You good, baby?” he murmured, head angled just enough so only she could hear it.

She nodded once, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking I should've worn something more intimidating.”

Harry leaned in, brushing his lips to the side of her head. “You’re terrifying as is.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“I’ve got billionaires afraid of me, but you—” He smirked faintly. “You’re what keeps me up at night.”

Francesca, pretending not to eavesdrop, muttered, “Jesus, you two need a chaperone.”

“Then don’t sit next to us,” Harry said dryly, sipping his scotch.

Luca snorted into his drink. “He’s a romantic, but he hides it behind insults.”

“I don’t hide shit,” Harry said, glancing at her. “She knows.”

And she did. Because even when he was sitting at his ex’s wedding reception surrounded by people who’d once tried to bury him in PR hell, Harry only looked at her. Only leaned in when she whispered. Only refilled her wine glass before she noticed it was empty.

He didn’t smile at anyone else. Didn’t even pretend. Which made the next moment all the more unfortunate. Because she had to pee.

“Be right back,” she whispered, touching his knee beneath the table.

Harry looked up immediately. “Want me to come with you?”

“To the bathroom?” She arched a brow. “You trying to babysit me or make a scene?”

He smirked, leaned over, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Call if you need me.”

“I’m not gonna get jumped between here and the Porta Potties, Castillo.”

But he didn’t laugh. He just watched her walk away like he always did. Like she was gravity and orbit and every soft thing he thought he’d lost.

The bathroom was set up along the edge of the venue, tucked behind hedges and a string of fairy lights, near the catering trucks and a makeshift hand-washing station someone had tried to dress up with eucalyptus.

She moved quick. In and out. Washed her hands. Smoothed her dress. And when she stepped back out, she nearly ran straight into him. John. Standing just outside. Waiting. In his suit. His tie loosened. A look on his face she recognized immediately. Contrition.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She froze. Of course. Of fucking course.

“Hi.”

John exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me say anything.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again at all.”

He looked down. “Yeah.” A beat. “I didn’t know—when I saw you were here, I didn’t believe it.”

She tilted her head slightly. “And now?”

John met her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

She crossed her arms. The silk of her dress whispered with the movement. “You waited outside the bathroom to talk to me?”

“You were gonna disappear again.”

“I didn’t disappear, John. I left.”

He swallowed. “I remember.”

Of course he did. He was there. He saw it.

The chaos. The headlines. The funeral. The trial. The nights she sat curled on the kitchen floor of that too-big house with nothing but canned peaches and a grief she didn’t know how to name.

“You were a kid,” he said quietly. “And they put the world on your shoulders.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

John took a step closer. “I never forgot what your dad did. What he let happen. I thought about reaching out when I saw your name again, but…”

“But you didn’t.”

He nodded. “Didn’t know if you’d want to hear from anyone who knew the before.”

She breathed in through her nose. Held it. Then let it go. “I didn’t need rescuing. I needed people to believe me when I said I wasn’t my father.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “You’re not him.”

The words landed. Quiet.

She nodded once. “You’re married now.”

“Yeah.” He glanced back toward the venue. “She’s a good person.”

“Oh I’m sure.”

Another beat.

Then, “You look happy.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Because just then—

A figure appeared near the hedges. Black suit. Rolled sleeves. Silver at the temples.

Harry. Eyes locked on her like a sniper.

Her breath caught. John noticed.

“Is that—”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

John blinked. “Holy shit.”

Harry didn’t say anything when he reached them. Just stepped between them slightly, hand finding the small of her back, anchoring her.

John cleared his throat. “You’re—Harry Castillo.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve followed your career for years—”

Harry cut him off with a slow blink. “And now you marry women you used to serve shrimp to.”

John’s face paled.

She touched Harry’s arm. “Harry.”

He tilted his head. “Just saying.”

John took a step back. “Right. I should—yeah.”

He turned. Walked off. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just firm.

She looked up at Harry. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was waiting outside like a husband.”

“You’re not my husband.”

“Yet.”

She snorted.

Harry’s thumb brushed the bare skin of her back, right at the base of her spine. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head. Studied her. “Want me to get you out of here?”

She smiled faintly. “Not yet. Francesca still needs to send me a link to a lingerie set.”

Harry’s eyes darkened slightly.

“Oh. Okay.”

She leaned in. Kissed the underside of his jaw. “For you. Of course..”

“You're a menace,” he murmured. 

She laughed.

He kissed her temple. “Come on. Let’s go finish this. Then I’m taking you home. Or the goddamn moon. Anywhere you want.”

“Your bed in New York has better pillows.”

“Then we’re going home.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the party. Not looking back. Not needing to. Because some ghosts didn’t need confrontation. They just needed to see you thriving. And Harry Castillo made damn sure she would. The grass was damp beneath her heels when they stepped back into the light. The reception had shifted again—music pulsing a little louder now, bodies dancing with the looser grace of people full of wine and relieved of ceremony. Tables sparkled under strings of warm light, their surfaces littered with plates scraped clean and wineglasses clinked a little too often. Francesca caught her eye from across the garden, waving a hand with the flourish of someone halfway through her third drink.

“There she is,” Francesca said as she approached. “The woman of the fucking hour.”

She smirked, tucking herself into the chair beside her again, Harry’s coat still resting lightly across her shoulders. “Don’t think I’m that important.”

“You walked into this party like it owed you an apology. You’re a legend.”

Harry sat down beside her again, brushing the edge of her shoulder with his hand before settling. Luca rejoined them moments later with a small plate of olives and cheese.

Francesca didn’t even wait. She leaned close, voice low. “So. You going to tell me what happened?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Saw the groom follow you.”

She paused. Then sighed. “I used to know him. When I was a teenager. He worked for my family. He was... kind. At a time when I didn’t really know what that meant.”

Francesca’s gaze softened. “And now he’s married to Lucy.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Full circle. Or something.”

Francesca touched her hand. “You doing okay?”

She smiled faintly. “Now I am.”

Harry was watching them. Eyes soft. Hands steady. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just existed in a bubble of silent attention around her, like if he looked away for even a moment, the world might try to take her.

Francesca clocked it too. Leaning in closer, she smirked. “God, he’s disgusting when he looks at you.”

She turned slightly. “Who?”

“That man. Your man. The one who’s staring like you’re his religion.”

Harry, without missing a beat, said, “I’m right here.”

Francesca sipped her wine. “We know. You’re always right there.”

The two women shared a look. Something old and female and funny.

“I’m gonna need another,” Francesca said, lifting her empty glass. “You?”

She raised hers. Empty. Francesca grinned and then pointed at their respective men. “Alright, gentlemen. Fetch and return.”

Harry arched a brow. “Are we dogs now?”

“Yes,” Francesca said, already rising. “But expensive ones. Go.”

Harry stood, eyes flicking over to her with a smirk. “You good?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Go.”

He leaned down. Kissed the top of her head. “Stay in the light.”

She laughed. “What am I, Frodo?”

But he lingered. Brushed her cheek once with the back of his hand before turning. She watched them go—Harry and Luca disappearing toward the bar—and then turned back to Francesca, who had sat back down and was now untying her shoes.

“So,” Francesca said. “Having a good time?”

She hesitated. Then said softly, “I think this is what having a good time looks like.”

Francesca looked over. “You in love?”

Her smile curled slowly. “Worse.”

Francesca raised her brow. “How worse?”

“He’s in love with me. And it’s... it’s not performative. Or casual. It’s like he loves me with his whole life. Like I’m the first quiet he’s ever known.”

Francesca stared at her. “That’s not worse. Thats luck.”

They laughed. The soft, shared laugh of women who knew too much and still leaned into it anyway.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” she said, voice lower now. “Not with someone who listens. Not with someone who doesn’t want to own me.”

Francesca tapped her glass gently. “Then keep it. At all costs.”

She nodded. “I plan to.”

But the cost, it turned out, was about to show up. Because just then—

A voice cut through the music. Sharp. Feminine. Familiar in the way rot is familiar once you’ve known it long enough.

“Well,” the woman said. “I guess if you stick around long enough, the trash takes itself out of hiding.”

She turned. Standing just behind her, drink sloshing, dress too tight around the arms, was one of Lucy’s cousins. Tall. Blonde. The kind of cruel that came with too much money and too little self-awareness.

She straightened. “Excuse me?”

The woman took a slow sip. “You heard me.”

Francesca turned too, already rising slightly in her seat. But the woman wasn’t looking at Francesca. Just at her.

“Everyone here is pretending like this is normal,” the cousin sneered. “Like it makes sense that you’d show up here, parade around in that fucking dress, and pretend you belong. But you don’t. You never did.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not.” The woman stepped closer, voice low and hot with something old. “You’re not sorry for seducing someone old enough to be your father. You’re not sorry for ruining a perfectly good man. You’re not sorry for making Lucy cry for months.”

Francesca stood. “Alright. That’s enough.”

But she didn’t stop.

“You think this makes you powerful?” she hissed. “Being the woman who dragged Harry Castillo out of hiding? You’re a phase. A fucking consolation prize for a man who got burned by a real woman.”

Her throat closed.

“I’ve seen girls like you,” the cousin spat. “Choke on your own ambition. Hide behind soft eyes and soft hands and then cry when someone calls you what you really are. You’re not real. You’re not permanent. You’re a fucking intermission.”

Francesca was already stepping between them. “Say one more word—”

But it was too late. Harry was back. And he had heard everything. He stepped forward. No hesitation. Voice like thunder on glass.

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

The cousin blinked. Turned. And froze. Harry Castillo, furious in a black suit and tie loose around his collar, stood like a man who had made his fortune destroying people who spoke out of turn. And now he was looking at her like she wasn’t even worth the breath it would take to really dismantle her.

“You don’t speak to her,” Harry said, voice low. Lethal. “You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. She’s worth more than everything on this property combined.”

The cousin flushed red. “You think just because you’re—”

“Back off,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Now.”

But then—

Another man stepped in. Older. Broader. Her husband, probably.

“Hey,” he said, stepping between them. “Back off. You don’t talk to my wife like that.”

Harry turned his gaze slowly. And smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile he used to wear in boardrooms before ruin.

“I just did,” Harry said. “Want to make it a conversation?”

“Harry—” she said softly, touching his arm.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet.

The cousin’s husband stepped closer. “You think you’re untouchable?”

Harry stepped right into his space.

“I know I am.”

“Harry,” she said again, firmer.

This time, he looked at her. And just as quickly—softened. Because she looked shaken. Small. And he hated that.

He touched her cheek. “Did she hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did she hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Just words.”

Harry looked back at the woman. “Then be grateful they were only words. Because if she’d touched you—”

But he didn’t finish it. Because Lucy had arrived. And John, trailing behind her, wide-eyed and unsure. Lucy’s heels clicked against the stone. Her dress shimmered. Her expression already lined with practiced grace.

“Harry,” she said, exasperated. “What the hell is going on?”

He didn’t move. Just kept one hand on her waist. The other clenched at his side.

“This woman insulted her.”

Lucy glanced at her cousin. Then at Harry. Then at her. And instead of apology—

She snapped.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Her breath caught.

Lucy stepped forward. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. You knew it would cause a scene.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t cause anything.”

“You brought a child to my wedding.”

She froze. The words were sharp. And Harry? Harry looked like he could kill.

“She’s not a child,” he said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Lucy scoffed. “Oh please. Don’t turn this into some noble love story.”

Harry straightened. “She is my girlfriend.”

Even though it hurt Lucy to hear that, it was true. Lucy’s lips curled. “She’s twenty years younger than you.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, without missing a beat. “Which means she knows how to grow. Something you’ve never learned.”

Lucy flinched. The air went cold.

John stepped up, hand on Lucy’s arm. “Let’s calm down—”

“Don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t try to smooth this over. She started it.”

“She didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what she meant,” Harry snapped. “She insulted her. And I don’t care if it’s your fucking wedding, you let anyone talk to her like that again and I’ll make sure they never get invited anywhere again.”

Silence. Thick. Sharp. Awful. And then—

The cousin muttered something. But Harry didn’t react. Because she touched his hand. And that—that was what grounded him. He looked at her. Really looked. Eyes soft. Wrath dissolving. She was pale. Shaken. But still standing.

“Let’s go,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Francesca was already packing up her purse. Luca was watching everything like a man taking notes on who to blacklist next. Harry didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t wait. Just wrapped his coat around her shoulders, held her close, and walked away.

The cousin said something again. Harry didn’t hear it. Didn’t need to. Because she had his hand. And Harry Castillo would rather burn the world down than let her think for one more second that she was anything less than holy.

And as their driver drove away—his hand in hers, his jaw tight, her head resting against the seat—he finally spoke. Voice low. Rough.

“I'm so sorry.”

She looked up. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I let them hurt you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were right there.”

He looked at her. Eyes burning. “I love you,” he said. “So much it makes me ugly.”

She leaned over. Kissed his knuckles.

“You’re not ugly.”

He pulled her close. Held her to his chest. Whispered into her hair “You’re the only thing I’ve ever done right.”

And outside the car window, Cape Cod disappeared. But inside—

Inside there was only the sound of her breathing. And the feeling of being held. And the sharp, tender truth that no matter how cruel the world got—

Harry Castillo would always stand in front of it. If it meant protecting her.

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

Sir Lewis Hamilton x Wales Bonner (2025)

And anyone working for 🧊

lord take all of my pain and sufferig and give it to elon musk

𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.

author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!

word count: 9.7k

warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.

jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem. 

other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business. 

and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift. 

this is one of those times. 

he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.

he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation. 

when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses. 

you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week. 

jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.

you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year. 

(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.

a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)

and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected. 

you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it. 

even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?

certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.

it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings. 

jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.

and that’s when he hears it. 

“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about? 

you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier. 

jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation. 

“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.” 

he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan. “i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.

“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”

“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-” 

he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.

“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers. 

she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.

he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears. 

“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?” 

“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before? 

you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.

how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair. 

oh god.

jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move. 

you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.

but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?

half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.

“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction. 

“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.

-

the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?) 

it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits. 

he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now? 

the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest. 

jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility. 

he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate. 

“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.

he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—

“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.

“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.” 

you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.

“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”

“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.” “you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low. 

“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope. 

in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.

“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.

but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear. 

“i-i don’t see the cords-”

“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.” 

you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you. 

you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.

“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.

you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him. 

“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.

“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring. 

“what are you apologizing for?”

“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment. 

“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.” 

“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell. 

the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student. 

“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.” 

“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.

“no.” 

you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july. 

and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.

but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel. 

“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.” 

your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. 

the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.

and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.

though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.

it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.

well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm. 

(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)

but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up. 

and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes. 

it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction. 

jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better. 

and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you. 

you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest. 

you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.

why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.

but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.

he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.

when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.

here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?

you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.

“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.

“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”

“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.” 

“i won’t. promise.”

“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?” 

“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.

“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”

“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.

you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.

the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.

you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.

“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.

and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.

you stare up at him. 

“you okay, kid?” 

“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.” 

“i figured. how’s your patient?”

“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”

“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.

“i was just making sure he was still breathing.” 

dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.

“have you eaten today?”

“i had some coffee. and some water.” 

“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.” 

you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.

mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot. 

“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”

you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.

“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”

jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.

“that’s okay. you’re tired.”

“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”

“yeah, why’s that?”

“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.

you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.

“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.

“that’s okay-”

“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”

“well, i-”

“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-” 

“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-” “if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”

“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.

“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”

“no. you’re not,” he replies. 

“oh. that’s good, at least.”

the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.

“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out. 

“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.

a real one this time.

“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.

“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.

“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”

“do they have french toast?”

“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”

mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay. 

-

an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.

you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him. 

he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically. 

“i thought you said no more coffee?”

“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”

“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”

“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over. 

“i’ll, uh, be right back.”

“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.

“yeah?” “thank you for the coffee.”

the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.

and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.

you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.

the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf. 

“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.

“i never said i was sleeping after this.” 

in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.

it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door. 

“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out. 

“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today. 

you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.

you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.

“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.

“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.

“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.

“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”

“i can’t read your thoughts.”

“that’s a lie-”

“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”

“how is that possible?”

“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.

“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—

he opens his eyes.

“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.” 

“yeah?”

“yeah.” 

“promise?”

jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.

and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.

at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.

the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one. 

your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.

your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop. 

you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.

jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck. 

the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.

“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth. 

and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.

this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want. 

you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day. 

there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you. 

jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore. 

and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.

“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you. 

“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.

“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.

“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.

“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.

the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.

“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”

“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly. 

“no, please don’t stop.”

“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.

and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.

“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.

“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down. 

“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.

“s-since i met you.” 

“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?” 

you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—

“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest. 

“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”

“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”

“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.

“the virgin thing. do you not-”

“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.” 

“yeah?” you ask. 

“yeah.” 

you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.

jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.

you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.

you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.

jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear. 

“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more. 

“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.

and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.

hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night. 

he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further. 

he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.

without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick. 

that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch? 

two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for. 

one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do. 

you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.

right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.

it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.

you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again. 

“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.

“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.

“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.

jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago. 

jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you. 

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.

“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second. 

every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you. 

“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.

you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.

“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”

“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything. 

he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.

he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear. 

“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes. 

“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.

you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.

he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.

“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?” 

“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-” 

“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear  and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing. 

you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss. 

he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips. 

“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.

you suddenly feel so empty.

he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck. 

you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.

“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.

“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.

“you need to get some sleep.” 

“i’m not tired,” you lie.

“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.

“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.

“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”

“jack?” 

“yes?”

“you wanna go again?”

♡

this man is UNREAL!!!!!!!!!!