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jcmarchi · 5 months ago

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One of Those “Onboarding” UIs, With Anchor Positioning

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One of Those “Onboarding” UIs, With Anchor Positioning

Welcome to “Anchor Positioning 101” where we will be exploring this interesting new CSS feature. Our textbook for this class will be the extensive “Anchor Positioning Guide” that Juan Diego Rodriguez published here on CSS-Tricks.

I’m excited for this one. Some of you may remember when CSS-Tricks released the “Flexbox Layout Guide” or the “Grid Layout Guide” — I certainly do and still have them both bookmarked! I spend a lot of time flipping between tabs to make sure I have the right syntax in my “experimental” CodePens.

I’ve been experimenting with CSS anchor positioning like the “good old days” since Juan published his guide, so I figured it’d be fun to share some of the excitement, learn a bit, experiment, and of course: build stuff!

CSS Anchor Positioning introduction

Anchor positioning lets us attach — or “anchor” — one element to one or more other elements. More than that, it allows us to define how a “target” element (that’s what we call the element we’re attaching to an anchor element) is positioned next to the anchor-positioned element, including fallback positioning in the form of a new @position-try at-rule.

The most hand-wavy way to explain the benefits of anchor positioning is to think of it as a powerful enhancement to position: absolute; as it helps absolutely-positioned elements do what you expect. Don’t worry, we’ll see how this works as we go.

Anchor positioning is currently a W3C draft spec, so you know it’s fresh. It’s marked as “limited availability” in Baseline which at the time of writing means it is limited to Chromium-based browsers (versions 125+). That said, the considerate folks over at Oddbird have a polyfill available that’ll help out other browsers until they ship support.

This browser support data is from Caniuse, which has more detail. A number indicates that browser supports the feature at that version and up.

Desktop

Chrome Firefox IE Edge Safari 125 No No 125 No

Mobile / Tablet

Android Chrome Android Firefox Android iOS Safari 131 No 131 No

Oddbird contributes polyfills for many new CSS features and you (yes, you!) can support their work on Github or Open Collective!

Tab Atkins-Bittner, contributing author to the W3C draft spec on anchor positioning, spoke on the topic at CSS Day 2024. The full conference talk is available on YouTube:

Here at CSS-Tricks, Juan demonstrated how to mix and match anchor positioning with view-driven animations for an awesome floating notes effect:

Front-end friend Kevin Powell recently released a video demonstrating how “CSS Popover + Anchor Positioning is Magical”.

And finally, in the tradition of “making fun games to learn CSS,” Thomas Park released Anchoreum (a “Flexbox Froggy“-type game) to learn about CSS anchor positioning. Highly recommend checking this out to get the hang of the position-area property!

The homework

OK, now that we’re caught up on what CSS anchor positioning is and the excitement surrounding it, let’s talk about what it does. Tethering an element to another element? That has a lot of potential. Quite a few instances I can remember where I’ve had to fight with absolute positioning and z-index in order to get something positioned just right.

Let’s take a quick look at the basic syntax. First, we need two elements, an anchor-positioned element and the target element that will be tethered to it.

<div id="anchor"> Anchor </div>  <div id="target"> Target </div>

We set an element as an anchor-positioned element by providing it with an anchor-name. This is a unique name of our choosing, however it needs the double-dash prefix, like CSS custom properties.

#anchor anchor-name: --anchor;

As for our target element, we’ll need to set position: absolute; on it as well as tell the element what anchor to tether to. We do that with a new CSS property, position-anchor using a value that matches the anchor-name of our anchor-positioned element.

#anchor anchor-name: --anchor; #target position: absolute; position-anchor: --anchor;

May not look like it yet, but now our two elements are attached. We can set the actual positioning on the target element by providing a position-area. To position our target element, position-area creates an invisible 3×3 grid over the anchor-positioned element. Using positioning keywords, we can designate where the target element appears near the anchor-positioned element.

#target position: absolute; position-anchor: --anchor; position-area: top center;

Now we see that our target element is anchored to the top-center of our anchor-positioned element!

Anchoring pseudo-elements

While playing with anchor positioning, I noticed you can anchor pseudo-elements, just the same as any other element.

#anchor anchor-name: --anchor; &::before content: "Target"; position: absolute; position-anchor: --anchor; left: anchor(center); bottom: anchor(center);

Might be useful for adding design flourishes to elements or adding functionality as some sort of indicator.

Moving anchors

Another quick experiment was to see if we can move anchors. And it turns out this is possible!

Notice the use of anchor() functions instead of position-area to position the target element.

#target position: absolute; position-anchor: --anchor-one; top: anchor(bottom); left: anchor(left);

CSS anchor functions are an alternate way to position target elements based on the computed values of the anchor-positioned element itself. Here we are setting the target element’s top property value to match the anchor-positioned element’s bottom value. Similarly, we can set the target’s left property value to match the anchor-positioned element’s left value.

Hovering over the container element swaps the position-anchor from --anchor-one to --anchor-two.

.container:hover #target position-anchor: --anchor-two;

We are also able to set a transition as we position the target using top and left, which makes it swap smoothly between anchors.

Extra experimental

Along with being the first to release CSS anchor-positioning, the Chrome dev team recently released new pseudo-selectors related to the <details> and <summary> elements. The ::details-content pseudo-selector allows you to style the “hidden” part of the <details> element.

With this information, I thought: “can I anchor it?” and sure enough, you can!

Again, this is definitely not ready for prime-time, but it’s always fun to experiment!

Practical examinations

Let’s take this a bit further and tackle more practical challenges using CSS anchor positioning. Please keep in mind that all these examples are Chrome-only at the time of writing!

Tooltips

One of the most straightforward use cases for CSS anchor positioning is possibly a tooltip. Makes a lot of sense: hover over an icon and a label floats nearby to explain what the icon does. I didn’t quite want to make yet another tutorial on how to make a tooltip and luckily for me, Zell Liew recently wrote an article on tooltip best practices, so we can focus purely on anchor positioning and refer to Zell’s work for the semantics.

Now, let’s check out one of these tooltips:

; <li class="toolbar-item">; <button type="button" id="inbox-tool" aria-labelledby="inbox-label" class="tool"> <svg id="inbox-tool-icon">  </svg> </button> <div id="inbox-label" role="tooltip"> <p>Inbox</p> </div> </li>

The HTML is structured in a way where the tooltip element is a sibling of our anchor-positioned <button>, notice how it has the [aria-labelledby] attribute set to match the tooltip’s [id]. The tooltip itself is a generic <div>, semantically enhanced to become a tooltip with the [role="tooltip"] attribute. We can also use [role="tooltip"] as a semantic selector to add common styles to tooltips, including the tooltip’s positioning relative to its anchor.

First, let’s turn our button into an anchored element by giving it an anchor-name. Next, we can set the target element’s position-anchor to match the anchor-name of the anchored element. By default, we can set the tooltip’s visibility to hidden, then using CSS sibling selectors, if the target element receives hover or focus-visible, we can then swap the visibility to visible.

/* Anchor-positioned Element */ #inbox-tool anchor-name: --inbox-tool; /* Target element */ [role="tooltip"]#inbox-label position-anchor: --inbox-tool /* Target positioning */ [role="tooltip"] position: absolute; position-area: end center; /* Hidden by default */ visibility: hidden; /* Visible when tool is hovered or receives focus */ .tool:hover + [role="tooltip"], .tool:focus-visible + [role="tooltip"] visibility: visible;

Ta-da! Here we have a working, CSS anchor-positioned tooltip!

As users of touch devices aren’t able to hover over elements, you may want to explore toggletips instead!

Floating disclosures

Disclosures are another common component pattern that might be a perfect use case for anchor positioning. Disclosures are typically a component where interacting with a toggle will open and close a corresponding element. Think of the good ol’ <detail>/<summary> HTML element duo, for example.

Currently, if you are looking to create a disclosure-like component which floats over other portions of your user interface, you might be in for some JavaScript, absolute positioning, and z-index related troubles. Soon enough though, we’ll be able to combine CSS anchor positioning with another newer platform feature [popover] to create some incredibly straightforward (and semantically accurate) floating disclosure elements.

The Popover API provides a non-modal way to elevate elements to the top-layer, while also baking in some great functionality, such as light dismissals.

Zell also has more information on popovers, dialogs, and modality!

One of the more common patterns you might consider as a “floating disclosure”-type component is a dropdown menu. Here is the HTML we’ll work with:

<nav> <button id="anchor">Toggle</button> <ul id="target"> <li><a href="#">Link 1</a></li> <li><a href="#">Link 2</a></li> <li><a href="#">Link 3</a></li> </ul> </nav>

We can set our target element, in this case the <ul>, to be our popover element by adding the [popover] attribute.

To control the popover, let’s add the attribute [popoveraction="toggle"] to enable the button as a toggle, and point the [popovertarget] attribute to the [id] of our target element.

<nav> <button id="anchor" popoveraction="toggle" popovertarget="target"> Toggle </button> <ul id="target" popover> <li><a href="#">Link 1</a></li> <li><a href="#">Link 2</a></li> <li><a href="#">Link 3</a></li> </ul> </nav>

No JavaScript is necessary, and now we have a toggle-able [popover] disclosure element! The problem is that it’s still not tethered to the anchor-positioned element, let’s fix that in our CSS.

First, as this is a popover, let’s add a small bit of styling to remove the intrinsic margin popovers receive by default from browsers.

ul[popover] margin: 0;

Let’s turn our button into an anchor-positioned element by providing it with an anchor-name:

ul[popover] margin: 0; #anchor anchor-name: --toggle;

As for our target element, we can attach it to the anchor-positioned element by setting its position to absolute and the position-anchor to our anchor-positioned element’s anchor-name:

ul[popover] margin: 0; #anchor anchor-name: --toggle; #target position: absolute; position-anchor: --toggle;

We can also adjust the target’s positioning near the anchor-positioned element with the position-area property, similar to what we did with our tooltip.

ul[popover] margin: 0; #anchor anchor-name: --toggle; #target position: absolute; position-anchor: --toggle; position-area: bottom; width: anchor-size(width);

You may notice another CSS anchor function in here, anchor-size()! We can set the target’s width to match the width of the anchor-positioned element by using anchor-size(width).

There is one more neat thing we can apply here, fallback positioning! Let’s consider that maybe this dropdown menu might sometimes be located at the bottom of the viewport, either from scrolling or some other reason. We don’t really want it to overflow or cause any extra scrolling, but instead, swap to an alternate location that is visible to the user.

Anchor positioning makes this possible with the postion-try-fallbacks property, a way to provide an alternate location for the target element to display near an anchor-positioned element.

#target position: absolute; position-anchor: --toggle; position-area: bottom; postion-try-fallbacks: top; width: anchor-size(width);

To keep things simple for our demo, we can add the opposite value of the value of the postion-area property: top.

Shopping cart component

We know how to make a tooltip and a disclosure element, now let’s build upon what we’ve learned so far and create a neat, interactive shopping cart component.

Let’s think about how we want to mark this up. First, we’ll need a button with a shopping cart icon:

We can already reuse what we learned with our tooltip styles to provide a functioning label for this toggle. Let’s add the class .tool to the button, then include a tooltip as our label.

<button id="shopping-cart-toggle" aria-labelledby="shopping-cart-label" class="tool"> <svg id="shopping-cart-icon" />  </svg> </button>  <div id="shopping-cart-label" role="tooltip" class="tooltip"> <p>Shopping Cart</p> </div>

We’ll need to specify our <button> is an anchor-positioned element in CSS with an anchor-name, which we can also set as the tooltip’s position-anchor value to match.

button#shopping-cart-toggle anchor-name: --shopping-cart-toggle; [role="tooltip"]#shopping-cart-label position-anchor: --shopping-cart-toggle;

Now we should have a nice-looking tooltip labeling our shopping cart button!

But wait, we want this thing to do more than that! Let’s turn it into a disclosure component that reveals a list of items inside the user’s cart. As we are looking to have a floating user-interface with a few actions included, we should consider a <dialog> element. However, we don’t necessarily want to be blocking background content, so we can opt for a non-modal dialog using the[popover] attribute again!

<button id="shopping-cart-toggle" aria-labelledby="shopping-cart-label" class="tool" popovertarget="shopping-cart" popoveraction="toggle"> <svg id="shopping-cart-icon" />  </svg> </button>  <div id="shopping-cart-label" role="tooltip" class="tooltip"> <p>Shopping Cart</p> </div>  <dialog id="shopping-cart" popover>  <button popovertarget="shopping-cart" popoveraction="close"> Dismiss Cart </button> </dialog>

To control the popover, we’ve added [popovertarget="shopping-cart"] and [popoveraction="toggle"] to our anchor-positioned element and included a second button within the <dialog> that can also be used to close the dialog with [popoveraction="close"].

To anchor the shopping cart <dialog> to the toggle, we can set position-anchor and position-area:

#shopping-cart position-anchor: --shopping-cart; position-area: end center;

At this point, we should take a moment to realize that we have tethered two elements to the same anchor!

We won’t stop there, though. There is one more enhancement we can make to really show how helpful anchor positioning can be: Let’s add a notification badge to the element to describe how many items are inside the cart.

Let’s place the badge inside of our anchor-positioned element this time.

We can improve our tooltip to include verbiage about how many items are in the cart:

<div id="shopping-cart-label" role="tooltip"> <p>Shopping Cart</p> <p>(1 item in cart)</p> </div>

Now the accessible name of our anchor-positioned element will be read as Shopping Cart (1 item in cart), which helps provide context to assistive technologies like screen readers.

Let’s tether this notification badge to the same anchor as our tooltip and shopping cart <dialog>, we can do this by setting the position-anchor property of the badge to --shopping-cart-toggle:

#shopping-cart-badge position: absolute; position-anchor: --shopping-cart-toggle;

Let’s look at positioning. We don’t want it below or next to the anchor, we want it overlapping, so we can use CSS anchor functions to position it based on the anchor-positioned element’s dimensions.

#shopping-cart-badge position: absolute; position-anchor: --shopping-cart-toggle; bottom: anchor(center); left: anchor(center);

Here we are setting the bottom and left of the target element to match the anchor’s center. This places it in the upper-right corner of the SVG icon!

Folks, this means we have three elements anchored now. Isn’t that fantastic?

Combining things

To put these anchor-positioned elements into perspective, I’ve combined all the techniques we’ve learned so far into a more familiar setting:

Disclosure components, dropdown menus, tooltips (and toggletips!), as well as notification badges all made much simpler using CSS anchor positioning!

Final project

As a final project for myself (and to bring this whole thing around full-circle), I decided to try to build a CSS anchor-positioned-based onboarding tool. I’ve previously attempted to build a tool like this at work, which I called “HandHoldJS” and it… well, it didn’t go so great. I managed to have a lot of the core functionality working using JavaScript, but it meant keeping track of quite a lot of positions and lots of weird things kept happening!

Let’s see if we can do better with CSS anchor positioning.

Feel free to check out the code on CodePen! I went down quite a rabbit hole on this one, so I’ll provide a bit of a high-level overview here.

<hand-hold> is a native custom element that works entirely in the light DOM. It sort of falls into the category of an HTML web component, as it is mostly based on enabling its inner HTML. You can specify tour stops to any element on the page by adding [data-tour-stop] attributes with values in the order you want the tour to occur.

Inside the <hand-hold> element contains a <button> to start the tour, a <dialog> element to contain the tour information, <section> elements to separate content between tour stops, a fieldset[data-handhold-navigation] element which holds navigation radio buttons, as well as another <button> to end the tour.

Each <section> element corresponds to a tour stop with a matching [data-handhold-content] attribute applied. Using JavaScript, <hand-hold> dynamically updates tour stops to be anchor-positioned elements, which the <dialog> can attach itself (there is a sneaky pseudo-element attached to the anchor to highlight the tour stop element!).

Although the <dialog> element is attached via CSS anchor positioning, it also moves within the DOM to appear next to the anchor-position element in the accessibility tree. The (well-meaning) intention here is to help provide more context to those who may be navigating via assistive devices by figuring out which element the dialog is referring to. Believe me, though, this thing is far from perfect as an accessible user experience.

Also, since the <dialog> moves throughout the DOM, unfortunately, a simple CSS transition would not suffice. Another modern browser feature to the rescue yet again, as we can pass a DOM manipulation function into a View Transition, making the transitions feel smoother!

There is still quite a lot to test with this, so I would not recommend using <hand-hold> in a production setting. If for no other reason than browser support is quite limited at the moment!

This is just an experiment to see what I could cook up using CSS anchor positioning, I’m excited for the potential!

Class dismissed!

After seeing what CSS anchor positioning is capable of, I have suspicions that it may change a lot of the ways we write CSS, similar to the introduction of flexbox or grid.

I’m excited to see what other user interface patterns can be accomplished with anchor positioning, and I’m even more excited to see what the community will do with it once it’s more broadly available!

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theonlyonesora · 21 days ago

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Paddock Whispers

Max Verstappen x Reader

It had started with a single photo.

Blurry, yes—but undeniably you. Wrapped in Max’s oversized hoodie, hair up, sleepy-eyed and barefoot in the background of a now-deleted Instagram story from one of Red Bull’s junior mechanics. You’d been handing Max a mug of coffee, his hand low on your back, and the caption had read:

“GOAT treatment only 😤☕️”

Naturally, the internet had imploded.

By the time the next Grand Prix weekend rolled around, speculation was wildfire, crackling through social media, F1 TikTok, and every gossip account from Paris to Singapore.

Now, you stood just inside the paddock at Suzuka, badge lanyard swinging gently against your chest, sun warming your shoulders, and a camera lens or two—hundred—pointed directly at you.

“I told you this would happen,” you muttered under your breath.

Max, walking beside you in his dark Red Bull kit, tossed you a side-smirk, annoyingly unbothered. “You look too good. That’s your fault.”

“You look good. I’m just… present.”

He stopped, took a step back, and looked at you in that way that made your knees soften. “You think that’s just presence?” he murmured, tipping his sunglasses down to scan you properly. “You’re the entire press conference right now.”

You nudged him with your elbow, cheeks warm. “They’re all staring.”

“So let them stare,” he said simply, and then—without hesitation—slipped his hand into yours.

Not on accident. Not for show. Just because he wanted to.

But the cameras clicked faster.

From the other side of the paddock, you spotted Charles and Pierre watching with smirks. Pierre leaned into Charles and said something, earning a laugh and a pointed look in your direction.

“Oh no,” you groaned.

Max followed your line of sight. “Ignore them.”

“I can feel Lando’s grin from here.”

“He’s jealous,” Max replied dryly. “Because you’re mine.”

You arched a brow. “Oh, I’m yours now?”

He stepped in close, leaning down just enough so his breath kissed the shell of your ear. “You’ve always been mine. Now the rest of the grid knows.”

Before you could fire back with something sarcastic—or worse, sincere—he pulled away like nothing had happened, squeezing your hand as he walked toward the Red Bull garage.

"You're blushing," he added over his shoulder.

"You're annoying," you muttered back—but you were smiling.

And yes, when Lando walked past a few minutes later and said “You really let Verstappen pull you, huh?” with a crooked grin, Max very calmly replied, “She wasn’t pulled. She jumped.”

Twitter/X, five minutes later:

@F1GirlsUnited: the way max said “she’s mine” and then walked off holding her hand like that… help I’m unwell @charlesbabydoll: y/n is literally one of us and she bagged max. Queen behavior. @RedBullTea: Charles and Pierre’s faces watching it happen was HILARIOUS, they were so ready to gossip 😭 @simps4max: if she ever lets go of that man I’m RIGHT HERE READY

The Tokyo skyline shimmered through the tall glass windows of Max’s hotel suite, city lights flickering like stardust scattered across the night. You sat curled up on the plush hotel bed in one of Max’s old race t-shirts, sleeves too big, hem brushing your thighs, watching him pace shirtless across the room with his phone to his ear.

He was still flushed from qualifying—P1, but barely. That Verstappen fire lingered under his skin, thrumming beneath the muscles in his back as he muttered into Dutch with his race engineer. You watched the little droplets of water trail down his spine from the shower, curling into the dip above his towel-covered hips.

“Are you even listening?” you asked softly.

Max turned, eyes sweeping over you with a lazy grin. “No, not really.”

He ended the call mid-sentence, tossed his phone onto the nearby table, and stalked over to the bed with that quiet confidence that always made your pulse stutter. He leaned over you on his hands, hair still damp, face so close your noses almost touched.

“You look good in my shirt.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

He hummed low in his throat and leaned down, kissing the corner of your mouth first, then your jaw, then your collarbone—slow, languid, like he had all the time in the world.

Your hands threaded into his wet curls. “Still wound up from quali?”

“Hmm,” he nodded, lips grazing your throat. “Can’t sleep.”

“Need help with that?”

He laughed, a breathy sound against your skin. “Only if you’re offering.”

Your giggle was soft and sinful all at once. “I am wearing your favorite shirt.”

“And nothing else?”

You tugged him down fully on top of you. “Guess you’ll have to check.”

Ten minutes later…

Well. Maybe twenty.

You were curled into his chest now, both of you still catching your breath, a sheet tangled around your waists and the lights of Tokyo spilling across your bare legs. Max reached blindly for his phone, eyes still half-lidded.

“Don’t post anything,” you warned.

“I’m not,” he smirked. “Just checking who out-qualified me.”

But the second his screen lit up, you gasped.

“Max—what is that?”

He squinted. “What?”

The Instagram app was open. On his story. A still photo—taken God knows when—of you straddling his lap on the hotel bed, laughing, both of you flushed and rumpled and way too obviously post-sin. He must’ve tapped post by accident.

“Oh my God—delete it!”

“I’m trying!” he fumbled with the screen, but the damage was done.

Five minutes later, the internet:

@F1FanaticNews: MAX VERSTAPPEN ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THE MOST CHAOTIC COUPLE PHOTO WE’VE EVER SEEN. @horny4f1: not Max posting a post-sex pic like he’s in love. I’m gonna cry @charlesgirlie: THE WAY SHE’S LAUGHING ON TOP OF HIM 😭😭😭 THEY’RE IN LOVE @landoenthusiast: who knew Max had rizz @yngridverstappen: I just know Helmut Marko is crying in a corner rn

Max tossed the phone aside with a sheepish grin. “Oops?”

You were burying your face in a pillow. “We’re trending, aren’t we?”

“Probably.” He leaned down, brushed a kiss against your temple. “Worth it.”

You peeked up at him, still breathless and blushing. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still in my shirt.” His smile softened. “Which means you’re mine.”

You groaned and pulled him back down with a laugh. “Then take responsibility for your public horniness, Verstappen.”

“Oh, I will,” he whispered into your neck. “All night.”

The Suzuka sun blazed above the track, golden and unforgiving. The crowd was a sea of red and orange, thunderous and chanting, and Max—Max stood at the center of it, champagne-soaked and grinning like he owned the world.

He did, in that moment.

And you were there, just past the barrier, watching him.

The moment his eyes found yours, there was no delay. No “let me thank the team first,” no sponsor-polite smile. He jumped off the small step of the podium like he had nothing but tunnel vision and walked—no, strode—toward you with his fireproofs unzipped and hanging off his waist, his torso still gleaming under the sun.

He grabbed you by the waist without a word and pulled you into him, kissing you like there weren’t thousands of people watching, like the cameras weren’t already zoomed in, like the world hadn’t been speculating for weeks.

Your fingers slid into his damp hair. His hands clutched your hips. And he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment—lips hungry, tongue teasing, breath caught between laughter and something much darker.

“Max—” you breathed when he pulled away just slightly.

He only smirked. “That should make tomorrow’s headlines.”

Press Conference – Thirty Minutes Later

He sat front and center, fresh shirt, hair slightly damp, watch glittering under the lights. Charles and Lewis flanked him, answering their questions politely.

And then it came.

A reporter, too smug for his own good, leaned forward with a little smirk. “Max, your driving was on point as always today, but fans seem very curious about that kiss after the podium. Any comment on the, uh… surprise guest in your personal life?”

Max didn’t miss a beat.

He leaned into the mic, voice low and amused. “You mean my girlfriend?”

The room went silent, pens stalling mid-scribble.

He shrugged casually. “She’s amazing. Beautiful. Smarter than all of you. And she’s the reason I slept more than four hours this weekend.”

Charles choked on his water.

Lewis burst out laughing.

The room erupted.

And Max just leaned back with a satisfied smile, looking directly at the camera—your camera, the one you were watching from backstage.

“Smarter than all of you?” you teased, straddling his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, still warm from the shower.

Max smirked, hands on your hips. “They needed to know.”

“You mean they needed to know I keep you rested?”

His lips brushed your neck, soft and slow. “Among other things.”

You giggled as he pressed you down against the mattress, his voice dropping to a whisper near your ear.

“I win races, but you make the victory feel real.”

The night unfolded like silk—hot skin against cooler sheets, whispered laughter, a kiss for every lap he’d driven like the devil himself was chasing him.

And this time, no phones. No posts.

Just you. Just him. Just the sound of breathless hearts and the weight of all the things he couldn’t say in front of cameras.

Only for you.

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monstersholygrail · 6 months ago

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New City, New Life

5k celebration 'Choose your own adventure' story

Dragon x fem!reader— hate fucking, rough sex, marking, fire breath play, restraints (tail)

Pt1 Pt2 Pt3

You stomp out of Minotaur Boss’ office in a blind rage. Your vision blurring with either anger or arousal, you’re not exactly sure. The sound of the door slamming open doesn’t attract any attention, your coworkers far too busy fucking to watch how hot you look when mad. But you can’t help but watch them, eyes drawn to the carefree way they drown in their pleasure. Caring more for satisfying themselves than continuing to work their job.

It was simply astonishing. They all hold a freedom you’ve never known. Not until yesterday when you got here, that is. The longer you stare the hotter your body grows, your pussy gushing with arousal. You feel your world spin, trying to accommodate to your new reality as you would have to accommodate a massive cock. Your thoughts quickly stray away from your mission, the arousal overtaking the anger brewing within you.

For a moment you seriously consider joining one of them. If this is your new life, who’s to say you shouldn’t take advantage of it? You bite your lip, slowing your pace as you walk past a pair of Cat Hybrids who look like they’re in heat.

No—

You can’t risk getting too distracted right now. You had to go confront your Dragon Headhunter and maybe, just maybe, you can blow some of this steam off on him. In whatever form that may take. With a deep inhale you try and clear some of the lust clouding your mind. You turn back toward the conference room, intent on going in, when you immediately bump into a man devouring someone like it’s his last meal.

A small yelp leaves you as you go flying back, not wanting to interrupt, but you quickly lose your footing and once again go tumbling to the ground. You briefly wonder if that sexy Secretary Bunny will catch you again. No! Focus! But then a pair of hands are on you and your heart, and your pussy, flutters.

The stranger’s hands quickly switch you around, causing you to plop firmly in his lap as you straddle him. A moan freely slips past your lips as you already feel his fully hard cock beneath you. As your head snaps up to look at your new rescuer your jaw drops, your eyes sweeping over his infuriatingly and impossibly perfect features.

But unlike everyone else you’ve met in this city… he appears perfectly human. That is until his eyes flicker, his pupils forming a small flame to reflect his burning desire. He wasn’t a human, he was a robot. No wonder he’s the most perfect specimen you’ve ever seen. You glance down, eyes trailing his form when you notice his IT badge. How ironic.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the main event falling right into my lap,” he purrs, voice smooth as silk as he leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw.

A small whine leaves you, his skin impossibly smooth against yours. Your eyes flutter and you hate how easily you melt against him. An IT Robot shouldn’t be so damn comfortable. You find yourself baring your neck to him, seeking more of his touch. His dark chuckle vibrates against your skin and you shiver, unintentionally grinding against him. Or was it on purpose? Fuck, you couldn’t even tell anymore.

“Technically you got me into your lap,” you sigh with bliss, your brain only growing fuzzier the longer you stay in his embrace.

It was like he knew exactly where and how to touch you. You were sure it was just from some strange programming he’s downloaded but who were you to question it? The IT Robot’s touch slips beneath your shirt and his large hands caress your curves reverently.

“And what else can I get you to do with me?” IT Robot’s voice rasps and curls into your ear as if putting you under a spell. A spell called his cock. He rolls his hips as he speaks, pressing his hard length roughly against your clothed clit.

“Nngh… N-nothing! I have to go, but damn I wish I didn’t,” you say through gritted teeth.

You force yourself out of his lap, your body vibrating and your cunt pulsing with need. You push the office chair he was sitting in away from you and he laughs. The chair stops as it bumps into another person but his eyes don’t stray from you.

“You’re always welcome, doll.”

It takes all the strength left in your tired and yet still somehow horny body to turn away from the sexy IT Robot but you do. You keep your eyes firmly trained on Conference room D, determined to see this through. Your Dragon Headhunter is the only one right now who deserves the impact of all your pent up emotions.

As you near the door, you stop short, surprised when it opens. For a second you wait with bated breath, wondering if maybe the Dragon Headhunter is looking for you too. You don’t even question the way your pussy floods with arousal. But your stomach drops as a Fae walks out of the conference room and sneaks off, not even seeing you staring after them.

Your fury returns tenfold to the point where you can’t even think straight. You rush for the door, barging in and smashing it closed behind you. The Dragon Headhunter jumps from the noise, lazily glancing over his shoulder at you. Your eyes automatically widen, a gasp leaving you as you finally see him in person. You’d video called dozens of times yet it all paled in comparison to seeing him face-to-face.

He was broad and painstakingly attractive. His scales glimmer in the sunlight that streaks in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His suit fits tight against his chest, leaving nothing to the imagination of what lies beneath. The fabric clinging to his thick ass and strong thighs. A slow smirk forms on his lips. The sight has you shuddering where you stand and it only serves to make you more angry.

“Well, if it isn’t my newest treasure…”

Your eyes flash, focus returning back to his face. Just in time too to see the smug look painted across his face. You’re in front of him in an instant only to push him back. The creature barely even moves. He sways, although you know he only did it for your benefit.

“Where have you been? You have no idea what’s happened today?” you ask lowly, hands shaking from your anger. Sure, the dicks been great, but this wasn’t how you expected your new life to start.

It’s Dragon Headhunter’s turn to look you up and down, noting your disheveled appearance and lustful expression. It has his smirk growing somehow wider across his face. He crosses his arms, admiring what he’s done to you, what this city has turned you into.

“I believe I have an idea.”

The air grows thick between you and the Dragon Headhunter. You can barely breathe, only managing short shaky breaths as you stare each other down. Your skin burns under his gaze but you refuse to squirm and let him win.

“Of course you do. ‘Cause you fucking tricked me into coming here. Why?” You ask firmly, finally demanding answers from him. You won’t be leaving here without them. And you’ll do anything to get them.

You slowly walk up to him, trying your best to intimidate a beast such as him. But all you do is make yourself feel smaller as he towers over you. The height different has your pussy clenching around nothing. His nostrils immediately flare and you know he can smell how turned on you are. You cry out and push him back again with all your strength.

“Why?!” You demand with a ragged shout.

Without a single word, Dragon Headhunter swoops down and claims your lips in a searing kiss to shut you up. A low moan rumbles through your throat and the Dragon responds with one of his own. One that has you turning to mush in his arms. Your mouths clash together as they fight for dominance. The Dragon’s claws sink into the flesh of your wide hips and he whirls you around, pressing your ass into the conference room table.

Dragon Headhunter ravages you, his tongue swirling through your mouth as if trying to taste every last bit of you. He pushes against you harder and harder until he growls and lifts your plush frame up like it’s nothing and drops you easily on top of the table. You grunt and throw his arms off of you, forcing him to kiss at your pace. His claws sink into the wood and screech loudly as he drags them down, trying to resist grabbing at you again. But as you suck his tongue into your mouth he can’t take it any longer.

He pushes you all the way down on the table with as much as a small shove. You cry out as you go flying back, glaring at him. Dragon Headhunter starts furiously trying to shred off your clothes. You grunt and wrestle against him to get your clothes off without ruining them. He doesn’t bother, shredding his own clothes with a few swipes of his claws. You two glare at each other even as lust fills your gazes. He jerks your legs open to reveal your glistening folds and smoke leaves his snout with his huffs.

“This is where I fucked that pathetic little fae and now it’s where I’m gonna give you their sloppy seconds,” he snarls in your face and you grit your teeth. Your stomach churns with a jealous rage.

Before you can snap back at him, Dragon Headhunter snaps his hips forward, impaling you on his massive cock with a solid stroke. Fire shoots from your core and burns through your entire body. A fierce scream echoes off the walls and your pussy spasms around his girth as your body tries to adjust to being split open on his cock.

But the Dragon barely lets you take a breath before he’s rearing back and snapping his hips back against yours. You groan lowly, actually thankful for all your previous lays today as they helped prepare you for this. Your pussy opens up for him, allowing him to drive in even deeper inside you with each movement. Letting your fury fuel you, jerk your hips, meeting his thrusts. The Dragon’s eyes roll back in his head.

“F-fuuuuck— augh— knew this fuckhole was gonna be good without even seeing it. Looked like a damn slut who’d take anything given to them,” he says darkly, his tongue slipping as he gets more and more lost in the pleasure of your cunt.

Your eyes narrow at him, no matter how good he’s making you feel. Each pump of his hips brushes along every nerve in your core and it sends you flying, your body shaking with unimaginable pleasure. Your sopping cunt sucks him back in with every thrust, needing him inside you despite everything.

Wanting to drive him to the brink of insanity, your hands snap out and sink in between his sensitive scales. The Dragon throws back his head and lets out a ferocious roar. Then he falls forward, elbows caging you in and rutting up into your perfect pussy.

“Tell me why you sold me on this job. Did you think I was right for it?” you ask lowly, your breaths mingling with your close vicinity. Needing to ask and know the truth.

Dragon Headhunter chuckles and your pussy flutters around him, making him groan. He leans in and bites down on your neck, marking you with the memory of this moment. Then he leans back enough to look in your eye to deliver the blow.

“Nah, I just wanted this sweet cunt,” he says breathlessly, his words so simple yet infuriating. You dig your nails into the flesh beneath his scales the Dragon groans in pain, his hips surging forward into your tight heat.

“Fuck you.”

Dragon Headhunters eyes burn brightly, finally matching the anger in your own gaze. He smirks wickedly, flashing his fangs at you in a clear threat.

“Gladly.”

His tail whips out, quickly wrapping around your wrists and pinning you to the table. With a growl that sends chills up your spine, the Dragon picks up his pace, fucking up into you with a stamina your poor human body can barely handle as it jerks up with every thrust. A loud mewl rips from your throat as his cock bullies into your cervix with each stroke. His eyes gleam devilishly as he watches how much of a mess he’s turning you into.

But it’s not enough. His free hand flies to your puffy little clit and rubs your bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. Your jaw drops, all the sensations building up inside you have you nearly losing your mind.

You scream in relief a when you finally fall off the edge. Your body shaking, hips rising off the table with the force of your orgasm. For a moment you see white and you hear the Dragon roar once more as he follows right after you. And when you open your eyes you gasp to see fire shooting out from his throat, teasing you. The heat it emits just turns you on even more, prolonging an already intense climax.

It’s only once you finally come down from the high of a lifetime do you seem to gain common sense again. You huff, your anger still palpable but more half-hearted as you tear yourself away from him. You slide off the table, heading toward your discarded clothes, needing to get out of here.

“I’m leaving,” you announce, quickly sliding your clothes back on. Ignoring the way your combined release drips out of you and pools in your panties.

“You’re under contract, sweets,” Dragon Headhunter replies, his tone filled with amused arrogance.

You whip around to face him yet unable to reply. He’s right. You’re stuck here. But is it really that bad that you are?

Seeing your hesitance to reply, thoughts clearly spinning through your mind, Dragon Headhunter smirks and saunters up to you in all his naked glory. “Welcome to Free Use City. Embrace it.”

Leaving the conference room you think over what he said. This was your chance at a fresh start and you wanted to make the most of it. In a Free Use City you guess that meant fucking strangers. Truly embracing the city for what it was and what it offered. You could do that! In your office building alone there were hundreds of people to choose from. You look around the office, wondering if IT Robot’s offer was still on the table. He’s bound to know everything about pleasuring a human. Or perhaps you could find Bunny Secretary and see if you could throw yourself at him again. And well… there was always that Demon Guard you passed on the way in. You’re sure he could show a sinful time.

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abbotjack · 3 days ago

Text

Irregularities

prequel to the life we grew series (part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four)

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : [email protected] Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,�� you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfiction #dr abbot x you #dr abbot x reader #the life we grew #fanfiction #fluff #the pitt hbo

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recognitionexpress · 4 months ago

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fielddrive · 2 years ago

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corpsekiller · 6 months ago

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i have nothing to say for myself, this is just very self-indulgent. despite it all, i still hope you like it <3 though it isn't proof-read yet, so please be kind and ignore any typos!

PAIRING. pro hero!katsuki bakugou x genderneutral!reader (barista)

WARNINGS. language, mentions of blood and scars, katsuki is sorta an arrogant piece of shit

MASTERLIST

currently thinking about pro hero!Katsuki in his early 20s who refuses to fit into social norms — he shows up to press conferences dressed in sleek black clothing, the sleeves of his turtleneck rolled up to show off the tattoos covering his scarred arms, muscles tensing and flexing beneath his inked skin as he reaches for the water bottle his assistant placed next to the microphone.

Silver rings adorn his fingers — heavy jewelry that catches the flashing light of cameras snapping picture after picture with a dangerous glint that matches the sharp smirk that tugs at the corners of his mouth when a journalist asks a peculiarly intimate question about his love life. He barks out a laugh, low and rough, followed by a careless fuck off, that's none of ya business — a reply that causes her to blush and scramble back into her seat as the next reporter gathers the courage to speak up.

When he‘s off duty, Katsuki is seen walking down the busy streets of the city in ripped jeans and heavy combat boots still stained with the blood of the villain he fought mere hours ago, the black tank top he wears stretching across his broad back and clinging to his body in a way that leaves little to the imagination.

Each movement shifts the thin fabric just enough to reveal more of the intricate dark lines of ink that trace his arms, curling up from his wrists to wrap around his biceps, traveling along his shoulders and disappearing under silver chains dangling from his neck to sprawl across his back and up to wrap around his throat.

Blood still seeps from an open cut beneath his exposed collarbone and bruises blossom on the edge of his clenched jaw, tinging the bare skin of his face in deep purple and blue that causes passers-by to gasp in mere horror. Some of them point at him, others only whisper behind raised hands, gaping at him with a hint of fear and admiration.

He only gives them a knowing smirk — the wounds he unashamedly carries from the battle are nothing but a badge of honor to him.

There‘s something so unapologetically captivating about him — a certain kind of controlled violence in every step he takes, an intensity that dares anyone to approach and promises a challenge if they do.

People scramble out of his way without even realizing they‘ve done it. Katsuki deliberately continues his path down the crowded sidewalk, casually adjusting the flannel shirt tied low on his waist before he enters a small coffee shop around the corner and ignores the crowd of fans that follows him soon after, heading straight past the queue as if the entire place belongs to him.

Perhaps it does, judging by the star-struck gazes of every customer he walks by, letting him pass without a single complaint.

"Americano," he says bluntly, voice low and rough, letting his words sound more like a command than a simple coffee order. He doesn‘t tack on a please, merely pierces you with a sharp glare as if he expects you to immediately drop everything you‘ve been doing to make his order.

Of course, he's right.

For a moment, you only stare at him. His hair is tousled, ashen strands disheveled from his fight against another villain you‘ve watched on the news earlier, but now that he‘s standing right in front of you, so close that you can see the small scar that runs along his cheekbone, you notice that his body isn‘t only decorated with blank ink.

No, there are piercings, too many for you to count in this short span of time, but the sight alone causes your knees to buckle. There's a silver barbell going through his eyebrow and two studs glint along the side of his nose, but what catches your attention the most are the delicate rings that adorn his lips, catching the light just at the corners of his mouth that are now quirked up into a devilish smile.

"Uh, coming right up!" Your voice comes out a little shakier than you‘d like and you clear your throat, quickly dropping the task at hand to busy yourself with the espresso machine and make his coffee as fast as possible, because—

Well, it's Dynamight.

You can feel his eyes on you as you work and although you don‘t dare to look up, too focused on not messing up, you catch a glimpse of his reflection in the machine — the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow and the way his piercings glint dangerously when he clicks his tongue in mild impatience.

He leans against the counter, tattooed arms flexing as he adjusts the rings on his fingers and runs a hand through his hair. The fangirls behind him squeal with excitement, screaming incoherent phrases at him that not even you can decipher, though he doesn‘t seem to pay much attention to them anyway. Instead, he‘s solely focused on his order and, briefly, on you.

After a few minutes, you finish up, managing to keep your hands steady as you place the cup in front of him.

"A-Americano... for you," you mumble, trying to keep your tone even as if your pulse isn‘t racing just from standing so close to him.

Katsuki’s gaze drops to the cup, then shifts back to you, something unreadable in his eyes as he lifts it to take a slow sip, watching you over the rim. For a second, you think you catch the faintest hint of a genuine smile on his pierced lips before he carelessly tosses a few bills on the counter — more than enough — and nods, turning to leave without another word, his attention back on the door and the crowd still clamoring for a piece of his time.

Katsuki is nearly out the door when he glances back and offers you a sharp grin, letting his tongue dart out to lick over his bottom lip as he lets his eyes wander over your figure with such intensity that you momentarily forget how to breathe until the coffee shop around you begins to spin from the lack of oxygen.

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you with the faint scent of coffee and leather, and the lingering thrill of an encounter you know you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

Taglist: @justwolosers

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magical-reid · 6 months ago

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The rings we keep

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!FBI!Reader

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: none?

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: An FBI agent unexpectedly marries Spencer Reid in a Las Vegas hospital to fulfill his mother's wishes, leading to a complicated relationship built on convenience. As they work together on a dangerous murder case, their bond deepens, and Spencer's quiet heroism reveals that their accidental marriage might hold the potential for real love.

The badge clipped to your belt was as much a part of you as the Glock strapped to your hip. Being an FBI agent meant long hours, endless yellow tape, and the occasional brush with danger that left you rattled for days. But you loved it. You thrived in the chaos, the adrenaline, the chance to make a difference.

Still, nothing could have prepared you for the chaos of being married to Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind or brilliant—he was both, in spades. Spencer was a walking encyclopedia with a heart that quietly held more compassion than most people knew. You hadn’t planned on marrying him, though, in fact, neither of you had planned on marrying anyone.

It had started two months ago, in a Las Vegas hospital room. Spencer’s mother, Diana, had been lucid that day—something you’d learned was both a gift and a curse. She had smiled at you as you sat next to Spencer, the three of you chatting about books, the weather, and old stories from her youth.

“You’re so good to him,” Diana had said suddenly, fixing her gaze on you.

You’d looked up, confused.

“She is,” Spencer had replied, his voice soft as he squeezed her hand.

“Marry her,” Diana had said, her words clear and direct. “Spencer, I want to see you happy. And I want to see you married before you have to leave.”

Leave. It had been a terrible misunderstanding, her mind tangling the threads of the past and present. But the plea in her voice had been real, and Spencer hadn’t been able to bear telling her no. He’d looked at you, something fragile and desperate in his eyes, and before you knew it, you’d agreed.

The walk-in chapel had been surreal. There was no big dress, no flowers—just a quick exchange of vows, a ring from a pawn shop, and Diana’s tearful smile as she watched from her seat. The moment had been oddly sweet, almost sacred.

And then the moment had passed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You’d both agreed to annul it later, but life got in the way. Between your cases and his, you barely had time to sleep, let alone complete the paperwork. Eventually, Spencer had suggested staying married, if only for the convenience.

“It’s easier,” he’d reasoned. “Legally, I mean. Besides, it’s not like it changes anything.”

And for two months, it hadn’t.

Today, though, felt different.

The case you were working on had taken a grim turn, and your unit chief had decided to call in the BAU. You hadn’t protested—it was a particularly brutal series of murders, and their expertise was invaluable. But when you stepped into the police station that morning and saw Penelope Garcia’s face light up like Christmas, you knew she’d snooped.

“Mrs. Reid!” she chirped, her voice barely contained.

You froze mid-step, narrowing your eyes at her. “Not here,” you hissed under your breath.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she whispered conspiratorially, winking. “My lips are sealed… mostly.”

Before you could respond, your unit chief waved you into the conference room. The BAU was already seated, their attention split between a whiteboard covered in crime scene photos and a map dotted with pins.

Spencer was there, of course, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He didn’t look up when you entered, but his presence was enough to send a twinge of nervous energy through you.

Your unit chief cleared his throat. “Agent Reid, thanks for joining us. BAU, this is Agent Y/N Reid—she’s with our unit and will be helping coordinate the case on our end.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. You saw Emily Prentiss glance at Spencer, her brow raised in mild amusement. Derek Morgan’s smirk was almost immediate, while JJ covered her mouth, clearly trying to hide her surprise.

“Reid?” Derek repeated his grin widening.

“Y/N Reid,” you said firmly, emphasizing your first name. “Yes. We’re married. No, it’s not relevant to the case.”

Penelope let out an audible squeal from the corner of the room, and you shot her a warning glare.

“It’s not relevant,” Spencer agreed, his voice calm but his ears slightly pink. “Can we move on?”

Derek chuckled but relented, turning his attention back to the board. “Alright, let’s get to it.”

The case was grim—a string of murders targeting young women who all bore a striking resemblance to one another. Blond hair, blue eyes, petite builds. They’d been abducted, held for days, then left posed in public spaces. The unsub was meticulous, methodical, and growing more confident with each kill.

By midday, the conference room was a storm of theories and strategies. Your units worked well together, bouncing ideas off one another as new leads emerged. But despite the progress, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

It wasn’t the unsub—though God knew you’d had stalkers in your line of work. No, this was different.

You looked up from your notes and caught Spencer’s gaze. He quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the map.

The weight in your chest grew heavier.

Spencer was your husband. Legally, at least. But in every other way, he was your coworker. He was brilliant and kind and occasionally maddening, but you didn’t know how to be his wife. Not really.

“Y/N?”

JJ’s voice broke through your thoughts. You blinked, realizing everyone was looking at you.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you and Reid should interview the victim’s roommate together. She might be more comfortable with a familiar face,” JJ said, glancing between you and Spencer.

You hesitated, but Spencer nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “We’ll take my car.”

The drive was awkward.

Spencer fidgeted with the radio, flipping through stations before settling on classical. You stared out the window, trying to ignore the growing tension between you.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally.

“So have you.”

He sighed, glancing at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “Are you… okay? With everyone knowing, I mean.”

You frowned. “It’s not like we planned this, Spencer. Besides, it was bound to come out eventually.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to make things harder for you.”

You softened at his words. Despite his sometimes awkward demeanor, Spencer had a way of saying the right thing when it mattered most.

“It’s fine,” you said. “Really.”

He nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.

The interview went smoothly, though it yielded little new information. The roommate was distraught, her hands trembling as she recounted the last time she’d seen the victim. You kept your tone gentle, and your questions open-ended, but the answers all led to the same dead ends.

When you returned to the station, the atmosphere had shifted. Penelope was typing furiously at her laptop, muttering under her breath about search parameters. Emily and Derek were deep in conversation, while Hotch stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed.

“We have a lead,” he announced as you and Spencer entered. “The unsub’s car was spotted near a bus station downtown. Surveillance footage shows him leaving the scene shortly after the last victim was found.”

He gestured to the screen, where a grainy image of a man in a baseball cap appeared. His face was partially obscured, but something about his posture sent a chill down your spine.

“The station is less than a mile from here,” Hotch continued. “We need to move quickly.”

Your team sprang into action, splitting into smaller groups to cover more ground. Spencer was assigned to the tech team with Penelope, while you were paired with Emily and Derek to canvass the area.

As you searched the bus station, your instincts prickled. Something about the unsub felt personal—too calculated, too deliberate. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching, waiting.

When your phone buzzed with a text from Spencer, your heart skipped a beat.

Be careful.

You texted back a quick You too before slipping the phone into your pocket.

Hours later, the unsub made his move.

It happened fast—too fast. You were alone, having split off from Emily and Derek to follow a potential lead. The unsub cornered you in an alley, his knife glinting in the dim light.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your blood ran cold. He knew your name.

“FBI,” you said, keeping your voice steady as you drew your weapon. “Drop the knife.”

He didn’t. Instead, he smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that made your stomach churn.

“You’re just like her,” he murmured. “So pretty. So perfect.”

Before you could respond, footsteps thundered behind you. The unsub’s smile faltered, and he turned to run, but not before Spencer tackled him to the ground.

The knife clattered to the pavement as Spencer wrestled him into submission. You moved quickly, cuffing the unsub as Spencer caught his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

You nodded, though your hands were shaking. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He offered a small smile, but his eyes lingered on you, searching for any sign of injury.

Back at the station, the unsub’s confession came easily. He’d been stalking his victims for months, studying their routines, their habits. He’d seen you on the news once, years ago, and decided you were his ideal type.

The realization made your skin crawl.

“You saved her life, pretty boy,” Derek said, clapping Spencer on the shoulder. “That’s what husbands are for, right?”

Spencer flushed, but his smile was genuine.

Later, as you packed up to leave, Spencer lingered by your side.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” you said softly.

“Yes, I did,” he replied without hesitation.

For the first time since your wedding day, you felt the weight of the ring on your finger. Maybe this marriage wasn’t as complicated as you thought.

Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly where you were meant to be.

Part 2

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fic #magical-Reid

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offpagebloggers · 29 days ago

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world-of-aus · 1 month ago

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Exposure

Pairing: Hockey Player!Bucky x Sports Photographer!Reader

Warning: A whole tall glass of angst my friends.

Author's Note: I try not to get in my head during the editing phase since it's been so long, but alas nothing different.. Anyway here's part II. Part III based off the schedule i've decided to go with will be out Tuesday! Enjoy my little puck bunnies!

The following day you arrived at the arena before sunrise. You soaked in the moment; the city still wore its quiet. Streets hushed, the skies heavy and gray, you liked it this way, before the buzz started, before the lights turned on and the world expected you to smile or answer questions that right now you weren’t sure you had the answers too.

You slipped inside through the side entrance, badge clipped to the collar of your work polo, your camera bag slung high over one shoulder. Your footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, familiar and grounding. Your sanctuary. Game days were always louder. Busier. But the morning after? Just a few trainers and early risers. Equipment staff. And a few rookies running drills in the distance.

And You.

You made a beeline for the media room, needing the hum of your monitors and the soft click of your editing software like a balm to soothe the invisible ache beneath your skin. Shutting the door behind you, you flicked on the desk lamp, pulling out your chair as you took a seat opening the folder from last night’s game.

You tried to maintain your focus as you sorted through the gallery, but your eyes kept drifting to that one photo.

The one you shouldn’t have saved.

Bucky, turning mid-play. Looking right at you. Looking for you.

Your jaw clenched as you minimized the window, pulling up a different set; group shots, sponsor promos, post-game press conference angles. You worked through them all methodically, flagging and exporting, labeling for the Bruins’ socials and web team to go through when they had a chance.

“Hey you, good morning.” You startle in your chair hand clasped to your chest as you turn your head to find the voice.

Dolores, one of the media team assistants, leans up against the doorway, smile pulling at her bubble gum pink lips as she holds two steaming cups of coffee in her hands. “Didn’t think anyone beat me in today, but i shouldn't be surprised, you were on fire last night."

You exhale a breath forcing a smile onto your lips. “Thank you. I - I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah. Game high?” she questions stepping into your office.

“Something like that.” You nod, “figured I could get a head start today sorting through last night’s gallery.”

Dolores nods subtly as she hands you a coffee perching herself on the edge of your desk. “So,” she hums around a sip, “any thoughts on the new guy?”

You keep your face neutral at the mention of him, “He played well, I think he’s going to be great for the team.” you answer holding back all you really want to say

“Well? Did we watch the same game last night?" she laughs. "He was an absolute machine out there y/n! Three assists, two goals, and that overtime steal? The team is obsessed already. Not gonna lie, I didn’t think someone with that kind of name recognition would be nice, but he said thank you to everyone last night. Even the janitor.”

You stirred your coffee slowly taking in her words, everything you already knew, “That’s good.” you offer.

Dolores eyed you, brow raised. “You feeling okay y/n?”

You nod, offering up a smile, “I’m fine, just a lot on my mind with deadlines." Lie.

“Cool, cool” Dolores trails off, perking up when she feels her phone vibrate. You watch the brunette pull her phone from her pocket, eyes lighting up, “Oh, group text from Theo. They want to set up the media shoot for Barnes. Headshots, player profile, some PR content. Probably later this week.”

Your stomach dropped. Of course.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, right?” You choke on your coffee.

Dolores blinks brown raised in concern. “Okay, seriously you good?”

You clear your throat, nodding your head, “Yeah, fine, fine.” Another lie. “Just went down the wrong pipe.” you smile.

She gives you another wary look her finger hovering over her phone, “Actually you want me to cover the shoot when it’s scheduled? You’ve had the past few days stacked, I'm sure you could use a break.”

You hesitated. A normal person would say yes. A sane one. But the photographer in you, the one who never backed away from a challenge, never let her personal life interfere with her work—sat up straighter.

“No,” you said. “I’ve got it, Thursday, right?”

“Thursday.” she confirms smiles kissing her lips as she gets to her feet. “Should be fun. Plus, he's easy on the eyes.”

The smile doesn’t reach your eyes this time. “Yeah.” Dolores leaves without another word much less another glance back your way as she exits, your office door shutting softly behind her. Your eyes slip shut, forehead falling to rest on your hand.

What am I doing.

Four years ago, you had let yourself believe you’d have a life with Bucky Barnes. A future. He promised he wouldn’t forget you, and maybe he didn’t. But remembering wasn’t the same as staying.

Now he was back. On your turf. Wearing the same jersey, part of the same team. A dream you once had.

But you’d wanted space. Needed time to collect yourself. after the splash of cold reality.

Instead; you were being handed time alone with him, a camera lens, and nowhere to hide.

God how were you going to get through this?

After the bomb was dropped on you your morning seemingly dragged.

You buried yourself in editing, tagging, uploading and when your screen began to blur, you switched to shooting some behind-the-scenes content for the social team; quick snaps of the locker room being restocked, jerseys being hung, trainers prepping gear. Easy, harmless, no emotional landmines.

Until the sound of skates on concrete echoed through the hallway just outside the tunnel you were walking through

You didn't have to look to know who it was. The low cadence of Bucky’s voice carried with it that distinct scrape of memory, warm nights and colder mornings, whispers in the dark, promises traded under streetlights and winter skies. You backed up, ducking into the supply room, waiting for the sound to fade. Your chest felt tight, like it had forgotten how to expand all the way.

Coward, you thought, gripping the camera around your neck. This isn’t you.

But your feet wouldn’t move letting the seconds tick by until silence reclaimed the hall.

When you finally stepped back out, the air felt heavier, like it remembered him too.

—

Across the ice, Bucky had just wrapped drills with the second line and was toweling off when Sam skated up beside him.

“You good tinman?” Sam asked swiping his own towel across his skin. “You’ve missed the net twice.”

Bucky blew out a breath, shaking his head as if that would clear his mind. “It’s my first week Wilson, just settling in, getting used to the team.”

Sam raises a brow at his friend. “That look like settling to you? I've seen you do better with worse.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. Truth was, his head wasn’t in the drills this morning. Not with you somewhere nearby, probably avoiding every corridor he stepped foot into.

He hadn’t expected you to be here. Had hoped upon, maybe. But seeing you last night?

That had knocked the air right from his lungs.

You hadn’t changed much, still had that quiet fire in you, still moved like you didn’t want to be seen and couldn’t help but draw every eye anyway.

But your walls, they were taller now. Sharper. Like maybe he was the reason you had built them. He was.

Sam nudged him with his stick. “C’mon man. Don’t make me look better than you. It’ll mess with my image and you know how i feel about my image - i'll be downright insufferable."

Bucky managed a smirk, “yeah Wilson we all know how you are about your image.”

“Damn straight you do, now get your ass in line and show them why they made that trade, let them know who you are."

—

Later that afternoon as you checked the team calendar. The photoshoot had been scheduled for Thursday morning. You stared at the block of time like it might disappear if you willed it hard enough. Thirty minutes alone. In the white-wall studio. With him.

It wasn’t enough time to prepare.

It was too much time to survive. It was -

A knock at the door jolted you your head peeking over your shoulder.

Wanda peeked her head in, holding a paper bag in one hand and a concerned look in the other. “I brought food. And if needed, unsolicited best friend wisdom.”

You let out a tired laugh, lips turning up in a genuine smile as you took in your best friend. “You always know.”

“Damn right I do.” Wanda grinned stepping in the door falling shut behind her, you watched as she plopped into the chair opposite your desk. “You didn’t answer my texts last night. Or this morning. Got worried, I assumed you either died or ran off to join a convent after New's broke."

“I thought about it,” you said, voice flat. “The convent thing.”

Wanda arched a brow and handed over a wrapped sandwich. “So, how bad was it?”

You didn’t answer right away staring at the sandwich in your hands like it might crack open and reveal a solution to you.

Wanda leaned forward, her voice gentle. “Hey, talk to me y/n.”

You let out a shaky breath meeting your friends' eyes. “It’s like, he walked in and every part of me remembered. My body, my brain, my camera, my heart, they all remembered. And I’ve spent four years trying to forget. Four year’s Wands. "

Wanda’s expression softened. “Oh y/n..”

“I thought I was past it I really thought I was. I thought I made peace with what happened. But seeing him? Looking at me like I’d never left his memory?” You blinked hard, shaking you head. “It was like time didn’t care about all the healing I’d done.”

Wanda was quiet, letting you get it out.

You set your food down, untouched, suddenly not feeling very hungry as the next words came. “He came up to me after the game. Said one thing. One thing that once upon a time i longed to hear."

“What did he say?”

You swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t forget you.”

Wanda’s eyes widened. “He said that?”

You nodded tears pressing at the backs of her eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “It’s not fair Wanda, why did he have to say that, I was okay, I healed – I healed.”

Wanda reaches across your desk gently covering your hand with hers. “That’s not nothing, that means something.”

Your watery gaze found hers. “It used to mean something. But he still left. And I stayed behind, picking up pieces of myself I didn’t know I’d dropped. I had to rebuild my life without him in it. I rebuilt it."

“I know,” Wanda said softly fingers squeezing. “But you don’t have to pretend you’re unaffected now.”

“I’m not unaffected. I’m - unmoored.”

The two of you sat in silence for a beat, the kind that wrapped around you with weight and warmth all at once. Pulling in a breath you wiped beneath your eyes with the tips of your fingers. “His media shoot is Thursday.”

Wanda blinked. “As in you and him, alone in a room with your camera Thursday?”

You nodded slowly.

Wanda winced. “Do you want me to pull strings? Get someone else assigned?”

“No.” You shook her head. “It’s my job. And it’s just thirty minutes. I can handle thirty minutes.”

Wanda gave you a long, steady look. “It’s okay to break a little, you know. You don’t always have to hold the frame.”

You offered a ghost of a smile. “Someone has to.”

Thursday. 10:02 AM. You adjusted the lighting rig with trembling fingers. The white backdrop behind you swayed slightly in the draft from the ventilation above. Everything was too bright, too clean. Too still. The silence felt artificial. Even your camera rested quietly on the stool beside you, waiting for you to break first.

You kept checking the time.

The media shoot was scheduled for 10 a.m. sharp.

At 10:04, the door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look up to know it was him, but you did anyway.

Bucky stepped in, a little breathless, in full gear minus the helmet. His hair was damp from morning practice, pushed back in a way that should’ve looked unkempt but didn’t. His cheeks were flushed, and there was a half-smile on his lips, the kind that came instinctively when he didn’t know what else to do.

It was like a body check to the ribs.

He stopped just inside the doorway. “Hey.”

You nodded attempting to tilt your lips up in a smile. “Hi.” Silence stretched between the two of you, taut and fragile.

He moved a little closer. “You still shoot on a Nikon?”

You blinked, he remembered. “Yeah, I do.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Thought so.”

You swallowed. “Still wear the same brand of cologne.”

That made him grin, unexpected, a flash of something that belonged to another life. “You remembered?” You shrugged softly, focusing your eyes on the camera instead of him. “It’s hard to forget something that used to be everywhere.”

His smile faltered, faded. “Right.”

You picked up your camera as youadjusted the settings. Your fingers didn’t shake this time. Not because you weren’t affected, but because the camera gave you purpose. And purpose, at least, gave you armor.

“Let’s get started,” you said setting yourself up.

He nodded wordlessly stepping onto the white tape mark on the floor.

You raised the camera and suddenly everything slowed. The viewfinder filled with his face, older now, sharper, but familiar in a way that made your throat tighten. You forced yourself to remain focused; you adjusted, snapped. Click.

He didn’t smile at first. Just watched you with quiet eyes, letting you work. Letting you look at him without looking directly.

“Smile,” you said softly.

He gave you a crooked one.

Click.

“Eyes up.”

He tilted his chin slightly, gaze catching yours through the lens. The way he looked at you, steady, careful, made something in your pulse quicken.

Click.

A pause. You lowered the camera.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky said.

You stiffened shaking your head softly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea Bucky we should really just focus on what we’re here for.”

“Too late,” he said gently. “Because I really want to.”

You hesitated. Then: “Go ahead.”

His voice was low as he asked the one question that had been ringing in his mind. “Why didn’t you write back?”

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widening slightly at his words.

He stepped forward then just a fraction. “I sent letters y/n. A few actually. I left you messages. I didn’t just vanish.”

You looked away, jaw clenched. “I know you didn’t vanish Bucky, trust me I know. You just became unreachable.”

“I tried, y/n. I know I was busy; I know things moved fast, but I didn’t forget -”

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “Don’t say that like it fixes anything.”

He went still.

You took a breath, tried again, quieter this time. “I didn’t write back because I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t okay. Not without sounding like I wanted to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said with a shake of his head. “You never could have.”

“But I didn’t know that then.” your voice cracked. “We were younger than Buck, and watching you become everything you dreamed of I wouldn’t be the one to hold you back from that - I needed to figure out who I was without you.”

The room pulsed with silence.

He stepped forward again, slower this time. “I never wanted to be someone you had to live without, I wanted your dreams.” I wanted you.

You blinked hard, eyes burning. You would not cry.

“I missed you,” he said, quiet and sure. “Even when I was surrounded by everything, I thought I wanted.”

You looked up at him, camera still clutched in your hands. “I missed you too Bucky. But missing someone doesn’t always mean you get them back.”

The two of you stared at each other, grief and longing suspended between the two of you like dust in a shaft of light. Then you lifted the camera again, as if to say: This is who I am now; without you.

He nodded, understanding. And despite your treacherous mind and heart telling you to take back your words, to talk to him, you pulled your focus back in on the task and finished the shoot.

Bucky didn’t leave the studio right away; even though you had turned away quickly after the last shot, pretending to check your gear, giving him an easy out his feet stayed planted on the white tape line watching you. You hadn’t forgiven him that much was clear, but you hadn’t shut him down either. You’d let him in, reminding him what it used to feel like to be seen by you; fully, quietly, completely. He wanted to know where to go from here, but his mind had no idea what the next step looked like.

It wrecked him.

“Barnes,” someone called from the hallway. Trainer’s voice. Break time.

He hesitated for a moment wanting to say more but not wanting to push when you had just barely let him in. With one last longing look at your back he turned, leaving the same way he came.

You waited until the door clicked shut behind him before sitting down hard on the edge of the backdrop stand. Your camera dangled from your hands, heavy and warm, like it had soaked up all the heat in the room. You felt hollowed out. You had held it together, and now you wanted nothing more than to fall apart. But there wasn’t time for that now, there was never time.

Running a hand over your face, you catch the edge of moisture at your lash line. You wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not here. The shoot had gone fine. Technically perfect. But emotionally?

A disaster.

He still looked at you like you were the only person who mattered most in any room he walked into. You’d hated it how all you wanted to do was soak it up. You didn’t know which instinct scared you more.

A soft knock on the door startles you.

You stand quickly, wiping your palms on the back of your jeans as you watch the door creak open a head popping through.

It wasn’t Bucky, It was Logan, the team’s media assistant. “Hey, you good? Coach wants selects from the player shoots by the weekend.”

You nodded, “I’ll have them ready before then, no worries.”

“You, okay?”

You smiled. Too polished, too quick. “Yeah. Just been a long week, just about ready to get out of here."”

He didn’t push. “Cool. Let me know if you need help sorting.”

“Thanks.”

When he left, you finally let yourself sit back down. And this time, you let your eyes close.

Just for a moment.

Just until the feeling passed.

—

Later that day, Bucky found himself wandering into the empty arena. It was quiet, ice freshly zambonied, light streaming through the upper windows in long, soft angles. He sat on the bench, helmet cradled in his hands, thinking about what you had said early that morning.

“I needed to figure out who I was without you.”

He’d never considered that you might’ve been drowning while he was flying. He’d thought you were the strongest person he knew. And you were, without a doubt in his mind, but strength didn’t mean pain didn’t touch you. He’d convinced himself the two of you were just growing apart. That the silence had meant acceptance. But now?

Now he saw it for what it was: self-preservation.

You hadn’t known how to be with him while he became someone else. And maybe, deep down, he hadn’t made enough space for you to stay.

He leaned back, letting his head tip against the glass behind the bench. It was cold. Grounding.

He didn’t know how to fix it.

But he wanted to.

For the first time in a long time, he wanted something more than goals, more than glory.

He wanted to be someone you could look at without flinching.

—

That night, as you sat curled up on your couch, laptop open, Bucky’s photos pulled up on the screen you paused. Each shot was good. Clean. Professional. But sterile, in a way you hadn’t noticed while shooting.

Until the last few.

Those were different.

Something had shifted between frame twelve and fifteen, his eyes had stopped performing and started speaking to you.

The final image?

It hit you like a sucker punch. He was looking straight into the lens. Not smiling. Not guarded. Just open. And somehow, impossibly, waiting.

You stared at it for a long time, you should have deleted it, but you didn’t.

You closed your laptop instead, falling to your side as you curled up further on the couch, your arms wrapping around a cushion like it might hold you together.

You see, the worst part wasn’t that he was back.

The worst part was that he still felt like home.

And you didn’t know if you could survive losing him a second time.

#hockey player!bucky #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au

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purplereina11 · 15 days ago

Text

🏀 Based after Eleven 🏀

Chapter 9

It started as playful online chemistry with someone unexpected-Alexia Putellas. Flirty banter turned into late-night texts before a heated moment on a club balcony shifted everything.

Now it was post game meet-ups, no-strings friends-with-benefits arrangement. They shared passion, comfort, and the grind of pro sports. But as the season went on, lines blurred.

It was supported to stay simple. These things never do however. Not in professional sports. The option to stay isn't always yours.

The press room was packed—shoulder to shoulder with journalists, cameras, microphones, and the heat of anticipation buzzing off every surface. The pre-final press conference always drew attention, but this one was something else. It wasn’t just another game. It was a shot at trophy number four of four. A chance to keep chasing history.

And most importantly it could be your last game in Barcelona.

You sat at the table in your team’s warm-up top, the club crest over your heart, ankle still slightly taped under your pants but stronger now—your presence here was no longer symbolic. You were starting.

Your coach answered the early questions—tactics, opponents, rotations. Maya followed with her usual sharpness and charm. Then it was your turn, and the room leaned forward like it always did.

And after a few standard questions—your fitness, your leadership, how much this final means—came the one everyone had been waiting for.

A quiet, confident voice near the back asked it, “You’ve been pretty quiet during all the contract speculation, but with the season almost over, can you comment on where you stand? What’s driving your decision?”

You took a breath, looked down at the table for a second, then straightened up. No spin. No fluff. Just truth. “Look,” you said evenly, your voice steady but honest, “It’s not just about playing basketball. If it was, I’d already have re-signed.”

Cameras clicked. Pens paused.

“I’ve loved playing here. I’ve grown here. I’ve helped make history here. But this job? This career? It doesn’t last forever. We’ve got a small window to earn, and then it’s over. So when one team offers you a certain figure—and several others are offering double, sometimes triple—“you shrugged, “you’d be stupid not to think about it.”

There was a ripple across the room. Eyes wide. A few scribbled notes. One or two raised brows.

“It’s not just about the badge on the shirt,” you continued. “It’s about where you are. Who you’re playing with. How you’re treated. And yeah—money matters. Because five, ten years from now? When I’m done? No one’s gonna pay me to relive my glory days. It’s about building something now that helps me later.”

A silence followed. Not awkward—respectful. The moderator moved to wrap, but you leaned forward to finish your thought.

“Right now, I’m focused on this final. I want this last trophy. I want to finish strong. But after that…” you paused, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of your mouth, “we’ll see who’s really in the business of backing their belief with more than just words and promises”

And with that, the press conference ended. But the headlines they were just getting started.

—

The final week of training before the big game was always a pressure cooker—drills crisp, energy high, everyone a little sharper, a little louder. Every pass felt tighter. Every play call had weight. And you were locked in. Blocking out the noise. Staying focused on the fourth trophy—just one game away.

Your ankle had held up, your rhythm was back, and you’d just hit a string of perfect shots in transition when your coach called a sudden stop. “[Last Name],” she said, voice raised slightly over the buzz of sneakers on hardwood. “You’ve got a visitor.”

You frowned, confused. Visitors weren’t unusual, but during closed practice? That was rare. You turned toward the far end of the gym, wiping sweat off your brow as you jogged off court—and then you saw her. Alexia. Hovering in the doorway, her hoodie pulled low, hands shoved into her sleeves, like she wasn’t sure she was actually going to go through with this.

Your heart kicked—fast, involuntary. You walked over slowly, the sounds of practice fading behind you, your teammates shooting glances in your direction, but no one saying a word. Alexia’s eyes met yours, soft but determined.

You stopped in front of her, arms crossed, breath still catching from drills. “What are you doing here?”

She swallowed. “I know you’re preparing. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You raised a brow. “Bit late for that.”

She flinched slightly, then nodded. “I know sorry.”

You waited. And then, quietly, she said, “I want to go to Paris.”

You blinked. “What?”

“For the final,” she clarified, eyes flicking to yours, holding them now. “I want to be there. I want to support you.”

You stared at her, trying to read between the lines—because with Alexia, it was never just about what she said. There was always something else, something buried beneath the surface.

She continued, softer this time. “I know I haven’t earned much of anything lately. But I still want to be there. If you’ll let me.”

You exhaled slowly, heart a mess of adrenaline and emotion. You’d told yourself you were done. You meant it when you said it. But looking at her now—open, asking, showing up for you without expectation for the first time in a long time— It made something shift.

You glanced past her, toward the gym full of noise and motion and pressure, then back to her. “I’m not a sideshow, Alexia. This isn’t about proving a point.”

She nodded quickly. “It’s not. I swear. I just… I want to be there when you win. If you’ll let me stand in the crowd this time. Not outside your door.”

The honesty in her voice made your throat tighten. You paused, then gave her a small nod. “Paris, then.” And for the first time in what felt like forever, she smiled without fear behind it.

You gave her a long look—sweat still clinging to your skin, the thrum of practice still pulsing faintly in your limbs—and she just stood there in the doorway, shifting slightly on her feet, eyes never leaving yours.

“Come over later?” she asked, voice quiet. Not a demand. Not a lure. Just… an ask.

Simple. Soft. You let the words hang in the air between you, unreadable for a beat too long. Long enough to make her glance down and lick her lips like she was bracing for a no. But you surprised yourself with your answer.

“Okay.” Her eyes flicked up, surprised. Hopeful—but cautious. Like she wasn’t sure you’d say it, and even now, wasn’t sure what it meant. You stepped back just a little. “I’ve got film review after this, and recovery. I’ll text.”

She nodded, her voice barely above the hum of bouncing basketballs behind you. “I’ll be home.”

Then she turned and left as quietly as she came, the door swinging shut behind her like a breath being released. You stood there a moment longer, staring at the space where she’d been. Something in your chest fluttered, unsure. But something steadier whispered, not everything was finished yet.

And maybe, just maybe… some things were ready to begin again.

—

You stood outside her door for longer than you probably should’ve—hands buried in your jacket pockets, staring at the brass numbers like they were going to give you an answer. Like they'd whisper what to say, how to act, who to be.

It was easier before. When everything was sharp. When it was anger and jealousy and fire. Now… now it was a slow burn. An ache. A silence you didn’t know how to fill.

You knocked. Not hard. Just enough.

The door opened almost instantly, like she’d been standing right behind it, waiting.

Alexia looked tired—but not unkempt. Like someone who hadn’t been sleeping but still wanted to make it look like she was fine. Hair pulled back, clean hoodie, fresh mascara but no concealer under her eyes. She looked like she’d tried. And that fact alone made your chest twist.

“Hey,” she said softly. Not a greeting. A test.

“Hey,” you replied, just as quiet. Just as unsure.

She stepped aside without saying anything else. You walked in, that familiar scent of her place wrapping around you like it always did—fresh linen, vanilla, something vaguely citrus. You used to tease her about how her apartment smelled like a luxury candle. Now it just smelled like her.

You didn’t sit. You hovered, shifting from foot to foot like you were still deciding if you were staying.

Alexia leaned against the back of her couch, arms crossed loosely. Not defensive—just contained. “You want water or something?” she offered.

“No, I’m okay.”

Silence stretched. Not tense. Just… cautious.

You looked around the room like it would give you something to latch onto, but the space was cleaner than usual. No clutter. Nothing out of place. Which only told you how much she was trying to maintain control.

You stepped a little closer but not enough to breach whatever line was hanging invisible between you.

Alexia’s lips pressed together, then relaxed.

Her eyes flicked to yours then. Not sharp. Not soft either. Just looking. Like she was trying to read you through layers she didn’t know were still there.

You stood there, silent for a moment, then crossed your arms—more out of instinct than anything. “I don’t really know how to be around you anymore.”

Alexia met your eyes again. “Yeah. I feel that too.”

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It was just… careful.

You wanted to reach for her. You wanted to say something clever, something disarming, something that would take all of this back to the place where you knew her and she knew you, and it didn’t feel like walking through emotional landmines just to ask how the other one’s been.

But you didn’t.

Because this time—this moment—wasn’t about kissing your way around the hard parts.

So you just said, “I don’t know what this is anymore. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

And Alexia nodded, not flinching from the truth. “Me neither.”

You both stood in that admission like it was something sacred. Something broken.

And for once, neither of you tried to fix it. Not yet.

You stood there a moment longer, eyes on the floor, breath caught in your throat.

And then, barely louder than a whisper, “Can I have a hug?”

Alexia didn’t even pause.

Her arms were around you in an instant—gentle at first, like she was afraid to break something already cracked. But when you sank into her, let your weight fall against her chest, she pulled you in tighter. One hand slid up your back, the other cradled the back of your head, her fingers threading into your hair like they had a lifetime of permission.

You hadn’t meant to cry. Not really. But it started anyway. Quiet at first, then steadier. You buried your face in her shoulder, the fabric of her hoodie soft and warm and familiar, and let yourself unravel just a little.

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just held you. Rocked you slightly, barely perceptible—like the motion was more for her than for you.

And when you finally pulled back, your face damp and your voice stuck somewhere in your chest, she didn’t tease. She didn’t joke. She just reached up and gently wiped the tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of her hoodie, her touch soft, slow, careful. Like she was afraid to make anything worse.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and quiet, “it’s okay. You don’t have to hold it together right now.”

That made your throat tighten even more. “I just… everything’s shifting,” you managed, barely. “And I don’t know what’s coming. With my career. With anything.”

“I know,” she said, thumb brushing just beneath your eye again. “I know it’s a lot. You’re allowed to feel it.”

Her forehead pressed gently against yours, not asking anything more of you—just being there. Present. Solid.

“You’ve always carried so much,” she whispered. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

You closed your eyes, just breathing her in. Letting her words settle in the spaces where all your worry lived.

For once, she didn’t try to kiss it away. She didn’t try to fix it. She just held you.

And maybe—for right now—that was exactly what you needed.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you stayed like that—folded into each other on the couch, her arms wrapped around your waist, your head tucked beneath her chin. The silence was warm, not awkward. A rare kind of quiet that asked nothing of you, just let you be.

Her fingers traced soft, absent-minded circles along your arm, and every so often you’d feel her chest rise a little deeper—like she wanted to say something, but didn’t. And maybe, like you, she was afraid the wrong word would pop the fragile peace you’d finally landed in.

Eventually, you exhaled, your voice muffled by the cotton of her hoodie.

“I’m so tired, Alexia.”

She shifted slightly, just enough to look down at you. Her brow furrowed, but her voice stayed soft. “Physically?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. But not just that.” You paused, then added, “It’s like… tired in my soul, you know?”

She nodded slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. “I do.”

A beat passed. Then, carefully, “Do you want to stay?”

You looked up at her, surprised. She must’ve seen it in your face, because she was already clarifying before you could speak.

“Not like that,” she said quickly, her thumb still grazing your skin, steady. “I’m not asking for anything. No pressure. I just meant… stay. Rest. You don’t have to be alone tonight.”

Your heart ached at the way she said it. Honest. Earnest. Gentle.

“I’m not trying to start something just because we’re hurting,” she added, quieter now. “I just… I care. And if you need somewhere to breathe, this can still be that.”

You stared at her, the weight of everything behind you pressing heavy against the relief of that simple offer. “Okay,” you whispered. “Yeah. I think I want that.”

Alexia nodded once, her arm tightening just slightly around you. “Good.”

You tucked your head back under her chin, your eyes already drifting shut. Her breathing steadied against you, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, the exhaustion didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like rest. Real, safe rest.

No expectations. No promises. Just presence.

And for now, that was more than enough.

Later, after a quiet dinner of leftovers you barely touched and a shared tea neither of you really drank, you both padded down the hallway to her bedroom. It felt surreal, familiar and foreign all at once—like muscle memory mixed with déjà vu. You’d walked this hall before. Slept in this bed before. Undressed in this room a hundred times with her eyes following you like gravity.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you both got ready like roommates. Soft silence. Occasional glances. No tension, just... that cautious kind of calm that follows a storm.

You stood at her bathroom sink brushing your teeth while she folded a hoodie over the back of a chair. At some point she handed you a clean pair of sweatpants—her own—and you didn’t even hesitate to change into them.

And now you were both lying on her bed, under the same duvet, facing opposite directions, bodies stiff with the effort to not touch.

You blinked up at the ceiling for a few long seconds before finally muttering into the quiet,

“Well... this is weird.”

Alexia let out a soft laugh behind you. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Us. Clothes on. Not immediately making bad decisions. Kinda feels like a sitcom where the two exes get stuck in the same room for the night.”

You heard her shift slightly, the mattress dipping. “Except we’re not technically exes,” she murmured.

You turned your head slightly toward her voice, raising an eyebrow. “What are we, then? Chronically confused situationship survivors?”

That got a real laugh out of her this time—quiet, tired, but genuine. “Something like that.”

You smiled faintly, turning back to the ceiling. “Still weird though.”

“I know.” Her voice was soft now. Close. “But not bad weird.”

“No,” you agreed. “Just... like we’re trying not to touch a bruise.”

There was a silence after that. Comfortable, if a little fragile. Like maybe tonight was your version of a bandage.

Eventually, her voice came again, lower this time. “I don’t mind weird if it means we’re okay.”

You glanced at her. “Are we okay?”

Alexia was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I think we’re trying. And that counts.”

You nodded back, even though she couldn’t see it. “Trying’s better than nothing.”

You both settled again, the stillness a little softer now.

And for once, the quiet didn’t feel like avoidance. It felt like peace.

—

Paris shimmered beneath a spring sun, the city buzzing louder than usual—not just with tourists and locals, but with the weight of something historic. Your team was one game away from completing the impossible:

Four trophies. One season. A perfect run.

You stepped off the team bus, headphones on, tracksuit zipped to your neck, your expression unreadable behind the sunglasses shielding your eyes from the chaos of flashing cameras and reporters shouting your name. But inside, your pulse was steady. Your focus, sharp. Your heart, beating with purpose. This wasn’t just another final. It was the one.

The end of a chapter—maybe your last in Barcelona colours.

The air in the locker room was electric—nervous laughter, bouncing knees, whispered affirmations. Maya was already blasting a playlist. Liv was braiding someone’s hair. Your jersey hung in your locker, bold and bright like a crown. You pulled it on slowly, taking in the moment.

One more game.

The tunnel was tight, echoing with footsteps, and you could hear the roar of the crowd even before you stepped onto the pitch. French fans, Barça fans, international press. It felt like the world had shown up for this. And somewhere in the crowd you knew she was there.

Alexia.

She’d said she wanted to come. You hadn’t texted to confirm. You didn’t need to. She'd be there. And for the first time, you weren’t playing for her. You were playing for you. For the girl who grew up chasing this dream. For the player they tried to undervalue. For the team you helped carry this far. The whistle blew. The game began. And from the first possession, it was clear—you weren’t here to play it safe. You were here to win.

From the moment the ball tipped, the game pulsed with intensity. This wasn’t just a final—it was a war of wills. A battle between two sides clawing for glory, but only one of them had already held three trophies this season. Only one of them had a shot at cleaning the slate. And only one of them had you.

You moved with purpose. First assist. Then a steal. Then a layup through contact that had the crowd roaring and your bench on their feet.

Your ankle? Forgotten.

Your doubt? Gone.

Every possession was crisp, calculated. The court shrank to just your teammates, your breath, the rhythm of the ball echoing against hardwood and crowd noise. The opposing team tried to double you. Didn’t matter. You split it. Hit Maya on the roll. Bucket.

They tried to force you to your weak side. Didn’t matter. Step-back. Three. The crowd exploded. You didn’t celebrate. You pointed to your chest, to the crest. One more. Eyes locked on your coach. Laser focus.

In the stands you allowed yourself one glance. And you found her. Alexia. Standing. Hands clasped near her mouth. Eyes wide. Watching you like you were a storm rolling through the court—and she was helpless to look away. She looked proud. Not possessive. Not broken.

Just… proud. And for a flicker of a second, your chest loosened. Because even if she hadn’t said the words yet—you knew she saw this version of you. The best version. And she loved it.

The game was close all the way into the fourth quarter. Bodies on the floor. Foul trouble. Timeout drama. You were exhausted—but not done.

With less than a minute left, tied score, the ball found your hands one more time.

You didn’t hesitate. Crossover. Step. Fadeaway. Net. Clean. And the stadium—detonated. The other team burned their last timeout. Your bench swarmed you. Maya shouted something you didn’t catch, but Liv was already grabbing your shoulders and screaming, “YOU’RE UNREAL!”

But you weren’t celebrating yet. Not until the final whistle. Twenty-three more seconds of defence. One more stop. You locked in. And when that final shot missed—When the buzzer went—When the scoreboard flashed your win— You dropped to your knees.

Four for four.

The dream.

The story.

History.

And when your teammates tackled you to the ground, screaming, crying, laughing— You let yourself feel it all.

Confetti rained down like a summer storm—gold and silver falling in flurries over the court, caught in your hair, clinging to your skin. Your teammates were everywhere—hugging, crying, collapsing in disbelief on the hardwood.

You were on top of the scorer’s table. Shirtless. Drenched in sweat and adrenaline. Your jersey in one hand, raised high above your head like a flag. The stadium was deafening, a wall of noise surrounding you, vibrating through your chest as you roared into it, face flushed with triumph, voice hoarse from the game.

“VAMOOOOOS!” you bellowed, chest heaving.

Your arms stretched wide, like you could catch the sound and throw it back. Your mouth cracked into a wild grin, the kind that only came when dreams met sweat and sacrifice and everything you bled for came to life.

You turned slowly, taking it all in—the sea of fans, the flags, the chaos. But your eyes stopped on one section. The family and friends section. Your parents were there, standing, hands over their mouths in disbelief, your dad clapping hard, your mum crying behind a camera lens. Erin was yelling, hoarse and proud. Ivy was on someone’s shoulders, both arms in the air, screaming your name like you were a superhero.

And then—her. Alexia. Not front row. Not waving like a fan. Just standing. Still. Focused. Her eyes locked with yours. And for a moment, everything slowed. You didn’t need to say anything. You could see it in her face—what she wanted to say. What she hadn’t said yet. Pride. Respect. Something deeper.

You pounded your fist to your chest, once, twice, then pointed at your family. Then you threw your jersey into the stands and dropped down into the waiting arms of your teammates—dragged into a dogpile of champagne and history. Four out of four.

Tonight, you were the one they’d never forget. The lights above the court felt brighter now—not stadium-bright, but spotlight bright. Like they knew who this moment was for. Security had relaxed, the crowd still roaring behind barriers, but the family and friends section had been opened. That sacred post-championship tradition—let the people who got you here step onto the floor you conquered.

You were still damp with champagne, a gold medal swinging around your neck, your voice nearly gone from shouting. Your heart? Still racing. You turned and there they were. Your mum pushed through first, her arms already opening before she’d even fully reached you.

“Oh my god,” she whispered as she pulled you in, her voice cracking, “you did it—you did it.”

You held her tighter than you had in years, your eyes stinging again—not from pain, not from pressure—but from everything this moment meant. “We did it,” you murmured back. “You got me here.”

Your dad was next, clapping your shoulder like he was afraid he’d break if he hugged you too hard. “That shot,” he said, eyes wet but proud, “you owned it. Like you were born for that moment.”

“I was,” you grinned. “You made sure of it.”

Then Erin appeared, already crying, already rolling her eyes. “You just had to go and make it impossible for me to ever be the favourite again, huh?”

You laughed, pulling her in for a one-armed hug. “You’re welcome.”

Then you heard it— “AUNTIE!” And suddenly you were on your knees, arms wide, catching Ivy as she launched herself at you, all tulle skirt and glitter face paint. “I KNEW you’d win,” she said, her small hands holding your cheeks like she was trying to memorise you.

You smiled, forehead pressed to hers. “You did?”

“Yep. I told mummy. You’re like… a superhero. But better. 'Cause you're real.”

Your throat caught. You kissed her forehead, swallowed the lump building there, and hugged her a little tighter. Behind them, your brother, sister-in-law, cousins—all there, all beaming, phones out, voices hoarse from screaming. This wasn’t just a victory. It was a legacy. Something they'd talk about forever.

And when you stood again, medal glinting under the lights, arms wrapped around your mum and Erin, Ivy holding your hand tightly—You looked out across the court and locked eyes with Alexia again. Still watching. Still waiting.

The celebrations had finally settled into a quiet hum. No more cameras in your face. No more champagne showers. No more speeches, interviews, or staged photos with trophies clutched to your chest. Just a cool Parisian night, your gold medal still warm against your collarbone, and your teammates—your people—sat with you on a stone wall that lined the river, facing the glowing majesty of the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled on the hour.

You’d taken a photo there earlier with Maya and Liv—feet dangling, smiles exhausted, but pure joy behind your eyes. After that, no one wanted to leave. So you sat there, trophy beside you, legs swinging over the edge, shoes muddy from a night that didn’t care.

And then, maybe because you were feeling bold… Or maybe because your chest still hadn’t settled—You pulled out your phone and texted Alexia.

If you’re still in Paris… come see me. Riverbank. Across from the tower.

You didn’t expect anything. She hadn’t texted post-game. Hadn’t come down to the court. Maybe that had meant everything, maybe it meant nothing. But part of you needed to give her the choice. One last time. You tucked your phone back in your pocket and didn’t tell the others.

Sometime later when you’d convinced yourself she wasn’t coming “[Your Name]!”

You froze.

Your head snapped toward the voice, heart leaping into your throat, and sure enough—There she was. Alexia. In jeans and sneakers, a long coat wrapped around her, hair still damp from a quick shower, cheeks pink from the breeze. And beside her, like some chaotic dream, were Mariona, Irene, and Jenni Hermoso, all bundled up and laughing like they’d just crashed someone else’s night.

You stood slowly as she reached you, your heart pounding. Mariona threw her arms out dramatically. “Did someone say Paris celebration? We brought snacks. And alcohol.”

Jana waved a flask and grinned. “You didn’t really think we’d let her come alone, did you?”

Alexia looked at you, something unreadable in her eyes. “You didn’t think I’d come, huh?”

You smiled, exhaling softly. “Honestly? No.”

She stepped closer, glancing briefly at your teammates, who were giving each other the look but staying silent—for now. Alexia nodded toward the space next to you. “You saved me a spot?”

You reached out and patted the stone wall. “Always.” And just like that, she climbed up beside you. No words. No pressure. Just the two of you, side by side, staring out at the city of lights. History behind you. Something else—maybe something new—still ahead.

The others were still laughing behind you—Liv and Maya teasing Jana about her tiny contraband flask, Mariona dramatically reciting poetry about the Eiffel Tower, and Irene recording it all for future blackmail.

You caught Alexia’s eye. She raised an eyebrow, a quiet, knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Wanna walk?” you asked softly.

She nodded, hopping down from the wall without a word. You followed her down the cobbled path, your sneakers crunching lightly against loose gravel, the Seine beside you glimmering gold with the reflection of the tower lights. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward for once—it was calm, gentle, a kind of peace that had been rare between you.

You walked shoulder to shoulder, the buzz of the evening still humming through your body, the medal in your pocket catching the occasional tap against your leg with every step. Alexia glanced sideways at you once or twice, like she was waiting to see if you’d say something first.

You didn’t. You were too busy noticing how soft she looked in this light. How her coat swayed around her legs. How close your hands were swinging as you walked, almost brushing.

The Eiffel Tower started to twinkle again—that five-minute magic moment every hour. Lights dancing across iron bones like the city was holding its breath. You both stopped. Turned toward it. Silent.

And then, Alexia spoke, voice low, like she was afraid if she said it louder, it might ruin the moment. “You’ve never looked happier than you did tonight.”

You blinked. “I was. I am.”

She nodded slowly, eyes on the tower now. “It suits you. That kind of joy. I don’t think I’ve ever let you feel it without… pulling it away.” That ache rose in your chest again—but before you could respond, she stepped in closer.

Her hand brushed yours—deliberately this time—and her fingers laced with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You looked at her. She was already looking at you.

The light of the tower flickered in her eyes, and for the first time, there was no tension behind her gaze. No sharp edge. Just something soft. Something you hadn’t seen before. “Can I kiss you?” she asked quietly.

You nodded. Just once. And she did. Slow. Steady. Tender. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t heavy. It was romantic. Which—honestly—threw you off more than anything else ever had with her. You weren’t romantic. You’d never been romantic. Not with her. But this? This kiss, under the twinkling lights, in the city of love, after the biggest win of your career— It made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t know what to do with.

You pulled back gently, your breath caught somewhere in your throat, nervous laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. Alexia tilted her head. “What?”

You licked your lips, a little dazed. “That was… really nice.”

She smiled. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I wasn’t expecting to feel like I’m in a movie.”

Alexia leaned in, pressing her forehead to yours, voice barely a whisper. “We’ve always been drama. Maybe it’s time we try a little romance.”

—

Paris was quieter now.

The celebrations were winding down, the riverbanks slowly clearing, and the city had retreated into that hush that only comes late at night—when the world feels too big to speak in full sentences. You didn’t plan to end up at Alexia’s hotel.

But when she asked softly—“Come back with me?”—you just nodded.

No hesitation. No expectations. Just the two of you chasing whatever this was a little longer.

The elevator ride was silent, except for the quiet buzz of the city still clinging to your skin. When she unlocked the door and you stepped inside, it wasn’t like all the other times. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t hungry.

You stood in the middle of her room, face to face, the glow of the Eiffel Tower still faint in the window behind you, and for a long moment—neither of you moved.

Then she reached for you. Slowly. Like she wasn’t just touching your body this time, but asking for something deeper.

Her lips found yours again, and it wasn’t rough or desperate. It was reverent. Like she was trying to memorise the shape of your mouth, the way your hands fit at her waist, the way you sighed when she leaned in fully.

Clothes fell away in soft motions. Her hoodie sliding off your shoulders. Your shirt caught in her fingers like she didn’t want to let go just yet. Every movement was slower. More careful. Intentional. When you reached the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It was quiet. Tender.

She kissed you like she was trying to say everything she hadn’t. And you kissed her back like you understood anyway. There was no teasing this time. No need to prove anything. No power play between skin and sheets.

Just love, in its most fragile, most fleeting form. When she moved over you, it wasn’t possessive—it was intimate. Her hands weren’t just touching your skin, they were holding pieces of you she hadn’t earned until now.

And when you finally broke, when your breath caught and your fingers gripped hers—she whispered your name like it meant something more. Maybe it always had.

Afterward, you lay tangled in the sheets, her arm draped over your stomach, her breathing slow and steady. No one said a word. Because the unspoken truth hummed louder than either of you dared to voice.

You were leaving. And she wasn’t stopping you. Not with words. Not with promises. This—whatever this was—felt like a goodbye.

A beautiful, aching one. And still, neither of you said it. You just held each other under the soft hum of Paris, pretending the sun wasn’t already on its way up.

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