#this is probably not my favourite but i like it either way :)

[letsgobarbs]

SYD take a fucking bow. How does it feel you absolute icon at having written one of the very best Pitt fics of all time ever. the entire series has me gasping and sighing and laughing and giggling and crying and in fucking shambles.

I loved the job specificities. I loved how much it told us about the characters. You either do this for a job or your research was so thorough someone should hand you a degree. I loved how much that situation informed us of the characters. It was nothing short of absolutely fantastic. It was like meeting Jack all over again outside the show. Just. Brilliant.

I have so many favourtie parts it's utterly insane, every other line made me feel things.

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

But because he cares too much to follow them.

THAT'S JACK. He cares far too much and has a bleeding fucking heart.

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.

my heart, he has it entirely. I love the way you paint him.

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.

This was the best date ever. I knew before he confessed later in the fic that this is where he wanted to ask her out. I knew. You've written it wirh such care like of course, of course, this is where he'd lose his heart to her. Standing. Fucking. Ovation.

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

I sighed, felt my throat tighten from the emotions.

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

Another favourite because my god does that man need a moment to breathe, to actuallynfeel the air in his lungs.

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.

I SCREAMED out of want, yearning. Yes, this. It's a need. And the way you wrote it too, with the flow that made it seem effortless. The care that Jack put into thinking for her and accomodating her took my breath away.

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

BITING MY FUCKING FIST I WANT THAT MAN SO BAD

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

I couldn't breathe.

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.

I'm in love. So complete in love with the way you write Jack Abbot. And th3 way you write Jack Abbot in love.

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.

I'm in love with the way you paint images. I love the way you describe and unfold and guide.

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.”

I wanted to hug him so bad.

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

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

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

I had to take a very deep breath to dmsteady myself. Love like this makes me lightheaded.

“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.”

best proposal ever. i could read it again and again and again.

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

i—

This man.

The way you write him.

Hate him for not existing. You deserve one of those magic pencils from the kids shows that make whatever you write come alive. I'd trap you in a basement and make you write Jack Abbot content until we all had one in the flesh.

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

The ring on your finger. And his cock inside you. Both a perfect fit. Poetic asf.

This was perfect. I'm in love with it. I don't even have the words to explain how much. I wanna live in your brain. I wanna crawl inside your walls. Wanna be your best fucking friend.

Irregularities

prequel to the life we met 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 : j.abbot@aghosp.org 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.

[biteofcherry]

Happy Wetnessday 💦

How are you? I am good.

This Wetnessday the good weather demands a cute summer dress. You pick your favourite and then head out to enjoy the good weather. While you're strolling in the park and enjoy the sun on your skin you catch the eye of someone who needs to have you.

Who will stop at nothing to get you? And will you let them?

fae Ransom

biker Steve

single Dad Andy

xoxo Wetnessday anon 💦

I'm good! I'm happy to hear you are too☺️ Hope the spring is treating you well, with lots of sun and blooms 🩷

Today your ask got my mind to work, in a good way!

At first it paused to wonder what's fae Ransom doing in a casual human park? I'm sure his realm has lush woodlands, meadows and such, so our parks, however beautiful, probably don't match. Besides, why would Ransom of all high fae decided to be among simple, lower humankind? Was he banished? Is he bored? Is he hunting?

Then, because my thoughts always love to go towards Steve, I made a happy little sigh. To imagine Steve mounting a bike and watching you, studying you, maybe stalking a bit 🥵

Single dad Andy somehow didn't stay too long in my mind here. Not that I have anything against him, not in this case, just the first two caught my attention more. Which resulted in...

Ransom's face scrunched in disgust when a group of teenage girls passed by him, their laughter so high pitched they might as well be screeching banshees.

They were loud and they had a listening device that boomed equally loud, too-bass based music. Despite no one around giving their consent to listen to that crap.

His eardrums (and his music taste) were bleeding raw.

He didn't mind the volume. Actually, he was quite known for throwing and participating in many parties. But this here, in the human side of the veil, there was too much cacophony and chaos of it all. He really couldn't stand being here for long.

Though they had good ice cream. Like the one he was having at the moment - a rich chocolate taste, with surprising bursts of salted caramel, and unexpected addition of heavily sweet yet sour cherry.

"You're either growing an addiction to ice cream, or you're here to start the same conversation. Again."

Draped in human clothes, Ransom considered himself blended enough with the masses, despite not having an ounce of human blood in him. He knew if anyone paid close attention, they'd see he looked different.

But the man next to him stopped looking so ethereal, though Ransom knew the same blood pumped in their veins.

He glared at Steve, who sat all spread on his motorcycle that was parked at the edge of the park, in a spot overlooking both pristine greenery and the lake sparkling ahead.

"Can't I just visit my older brother?" He asked, taking another lick of the sweetness.

"Sure you can." Steve nodded. "But you never just visit. It's either to hide from grandfather's schemes, or to complain about responsibilities."

"Responsibilities I have to deal with because you bailed." Ransom spat accusingly.

Steve gave him that look, which he often used to do in the past when Ransom was throwing a tantrum and knew damn well that Steve was right all along.

"I honored the responsibilities for over a thousand years." Steve reminded him. "I would continue to, if the corrupted council didn't fear losing their power and wealth."

"Which they would, if you sat on the throne." Ransom pointed out the obvious.

Steve and him may have grown in the same family, in the same palace, under the same grandfather's watch, but Steve was always a defiant one. Not rebellious for the sake of it, but to fight the injustice and rusty, conservative frames the fae kingdom was locked in.

Grandfather often clashed with Steve, however in front of the council and nobility he always took Steve's side. Ransom knew it was less out of respect for Steve and more to underline the fact that Steve was his successor.

Which didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. In the end, the council's poison destroyed many loyalties Steve had built over the years; including framing and banishing his best friend.

That was enough to drive Steve away from the throne he was born to sit on.

He left. Out of his own volition.

Leaving Ransom with the mess and the doom of having to wear the crown himself.

"They would." Steve agreed, a cheeky smirk curving his lips.

"So come back and do that," Ransom's voice remained somewhat petulant, but there was a vulnerable helplessness to it, one a little brother might display toward the older, protective one.

Steve's face softened as he looked at him. Blue eyes, that were so similar to Ransom's, now held only the color of Mediterranean Sea, lacking the swirls of the stars on the night sky.

"No, Ran." He replied. "You may complain about the responsibilities, but we both know you don't really hate the prospect of becoming the king. Just some aspects of it."

"Yeah, like the fucking council." Ransom rolled his eyes. "But I'm not gonna bail beyond the veil and live among people just to spite them."

"It's not that bad." Steve laughed, leaning forward on his bike. "I actually like it here. Besides, I've figured out a way for you to show the council the middle finger and keep the crown on your head."

"Which is?" Ransom tensed a bit, seemingly in suspicion, but Steve knew his brother enough to recognize interest. And eagerness to stir shit.

"As a king, you'll have to marry-"

"Don't fucking remind me!"

"Stop whining and listen, you snail shell." Steve snorted at Ransom's indignant face. "You have to marry. The exact law for it states the bride has to carry the fae blood and light."

"Where are you going with this exactly?" At the moment he wasn't seeing any loophole in that script.

Then Steve's smirk returned and his index finger pointed at something in the park.

No, at someone, Ransom realized as his gaze followed the direction.

There you were, strolling through the park in a pretty pastel sundress, enjoying a cup of ice cream. You looked cute, sweet even. In a way that could provoke a fae like him to debauch you.

Ransom was about to accuse Steve of getting senile from spending too much time in the human world, since at first nothing made sense here, but as spoiled and shallow everyone thought him to be, he was actually exceptionally smart.

"How do you know she's of fae bloodline?" He asked Steve, but his gaze remained on you, following your every move.

"We were younglings when Abraham left the realm." Ransom was barely two hundred then, didn't pay any attention to the politics and nuances then, but he remembered the echo of that name.

"After his wife was sentenced, right?"

"For aiding humans, yes." Steve nodded. "He came to live among humankind and with time found a new companion. A human woman. They had children. She's their descendant. Abraham's descendant."

"So technically, she carries the fae blood and light." A slow smirk and a glint in his eyes, Ransom took a long lick of his melting ice cream. "Lawfully, she can be my wife. But since she's human, it will piss the fuck out of the council and cause a general chaos in the kingdom."

"Might even cause grandfather to pass to the stars." Steve grinned.

"I'll burn him a beautiful pyre." Ransom laughed in delight.

[timaeusresponds]

I think Hal’s intentional vulnerability is initially meant to be an ironic inverse to Dirk’s reservation and is 9/10 *meant* to be a ‘dare to believe my sincerity’ thing but almost always falls into being obviously sincere.

“Your investment in my comfort is why you’re my favourite of the growing gaggle of skinbags, seeing as the idea of me being anything but expressly smug seems uniquely foreign to literally anyone else.” You can either dare to assume he genuinely feels overlooked as an emotional being and genuinely appreciates being considered **or** you can interpret what is an otherwise genuine sentiment as a dig at you and everyone else for only meeting the bare minimum expectation of decency with him by treating him like a person. Is he being facetious and condescending about how little people give or is he lavishing in what he can get?? The truth is probably the latter, he genuinely wants to be considered, but any prodding or positive response is met with a ‘great job for doing the bare minimum’ attitude that negates the vulnerability by making the whole sentiment seem bitter.

Which works for like, a little bit. The first times it’s pretty hard to get whether he’s started wearing his heart on his sleeve or if he’s just weaponizing the perception of him as a more emotionally available and tender person.

“You know I’d appreciate to be considered in decisions.” Truth! “I was fucking with you, I’m ambivalent to whatever you end up doing.” Bullshit stated the moment someone tries to get him to elaborate.

The main issue is Dirk is dumb as rocks and falls for it every time— their relationship is too high stakes and Hal’s inability to present as sincerely vulnerable in any way with Dirk makes proper communication nigh impossible. Dirk can’t trust him to be legitimately open and honest and Hal can’t offer that because he doesn’t want to lose what little of an Upper hand he has— the presentation of being better than Dirk, in his control of his mental health and emotional outbursts.

[justmeexistinghere]

W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.1 Trigger

Summary:

You planned to leave your past behind and focus on keeping a low profile at Eunjang High. But when a violent encounter after school forces you out of the shadows, old instincts flare up and new connections begin to form. Sometimes, the fight you try to avoid is the one that changes everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: violence / physical fights, bullying, blood / injury, swearing / strong language, mentions of past trauma, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> Wordcount: 2.503 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first story — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Just like the past few days, the usually blue sky is hidden behind a wall of grey clouds. Even the sun surrenders, casting a heavy, oppressive mood over the city. Summoning any motivation for the lessons ahead feels impossible – not that you ever had much to begin with. 

Listlessly, you stare out the window, your gaze empty and unfocused. Occasionally, your eyes flick over to the clock above the door, moving so slowly it feels personal. You rest your head on your arms, knowing the teacher wouldn't say a word, since all of them have learned to keep their heads down, just like most of the students. You close your eyes, letting the hum of the classroom fade into the background as your thoughts drift away.

The bell finally snaps you out of it. Time for a break. Not that it matters... 

You are still new here, still alone – and, honestly, you prefer it that way. Choosing between bullies and their victims isn’t a choice you are interested in. Sure, a few students don’t fit into either category, but why take the risk? You know how quickly the wrong decision can blow up in your face.  

You hate this place. But it was your own fault. The thought had settled in your mind a long time ago. No sense denying it.

This place, Eunjang High, is infamous for brutal fights, relentless bullying, and a toxic atmosphere. Sounds fun, right? If one enjoys survival games, it would definitely get a five-star rating. 

You feel like an intruder in a system you had no desire to belong to. And honestly? You certainly don’t want to change anything about it, even if you are sure that you could. Maybe once, the old you would’ve thought about changing things. But not now. You have bigger promises to keep. Promises that tasted bitter the second you made them. Graduation isn’t far off. And you're counting the days – not to celebrate, but to leave this hellhole behind without a second glance.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After what felt like an eternity, school's over. Another level of this horror game is done.  You don’t know why, but instead of taking your usual route – the one where you're least likely to run into anyone – you take the shortcut through the notorious tunnel where fights happen almost every day. For a second, the familiar smell of blood and sweat, probably from the most recent fight, finds its way to your nose. You tense for a second, listening.   Nothing...   Just your echoing steps. “Lucky me,” you whisper to yourself after realizing that you could have walked straight into someone's fist or something. You start playing some of your favourite songs over your earphones, which give you a decent soundtrack to your after-school walk, offering a small escape from your sickening surroundings.

You are almost home until you remember that your dad asked you to get some groceries on your way back. You enter the 7-Eleven, which is nearby, and gather everything you need. While browsing through the shelves, you see someone slurping their ramen, and its smell makes your belly long for it with a quiet noise, you hope only you caught. You stop your music – shit, reality hits again – and wait quietly until the cashier breaks the silence with the annoyed-sounding words, “That's all?” You nod. “That's 13,000�� please,” he says while you are already looking for your card. You feel how he eyes you impatiently as he cannot wait to return to the game he was playing on his phone right before you interrupted him. The people in this area really do not care about their jobs, but honestly, you kinda understand them.

A loud crash at the window facade makes your hand jolt, almost dropping your card. Fuck, what was that? Your heart skips. And you feel your muscles tensing up, ready to defend yourself, as if your body never forgot how it's done. You turn around with a swift move and quickly capture the ongoing situation.  

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Outside the store, a group of teenagers – looking like wannabe gangsters from the Unit – have ganged up on some other students, one of whom was slammed into the window and was the source of the crashing sound. His dark hair is still being gripped by a taller guy who laughs shamelessly, looking not only at his "friends" but also at a dark alley, where a lanky figure with a lit cigarette is barely noticeable.  

It is time to act fast – fuck – no trouble, you remind yourself over and over again, while leaving the store and trying to get past the troublemakers. “Hey, you!” shouts one of the guys, but you ignore it, trying to look unbothered by the scene. “Is this bitch really ignoring me?” he says while taking fast steps in your direction until he is close enough to grab your wrist. His grip is strong, and the sudden pain makes your eyes water. You try to shake him off, which only leads to him gripping even harder – you didn’t think that would be possible, but damn, it was. “Let go,” you say, trying to be as direct and emotionless as possible. “Why would you tell me what to do?” he responds, laughing, and turns to his gang, which still hasn't let the other guys they harassed before leave. Only then do you realize how bad the condition of the boy is that was hit against the window. He is bleeding from his head heavily, and you aren't sure if he is still conscious. You hear his heavy breathing, and it feels like déjà vu. Your heart starts to ache and a small shiny tear rolls down your cheek. The guy on your wrist notices that your eyes were glued on the badly injured and bursts out: “Feel pity for this motherfucker? Do you know this loser?” You look at the attacker with a disgusted face, not being able to hide your thoughts for a second. No trouble, you promised. But some promises are easier to break than others. Fuck it.

You then look him right in the eyes, putting on a small grin, and let out a short snort of laughter, trying to irritate him. “Pity? Yeah, maybe. I mean, who wouldn't be pitiful looking, after having a fight with someone, one cannot stand a chance with, huh? But you are the one I pity even more, you know?” you answer him cockily. His eyes pop open, since he hadn’t expected that as your answer. "You pity me?" his eyes get darker, and his voice lower. The other gang members start laughing, but you know exactly how to shut them up. “You too!” You raise your voice, making sure they hear you clearly, which succeeds. All eyes are on you now. God, you have a love-hate relationship with this exact feeling. But you must end what you have started.

“The ones that pick weaker and defenseless victims to bully are the most pitiful,” you continue. You feel relief at your wrist, realizing the guy transfers his weight to his rear leg, along with the arm that was on you just now. You catch that familiar glint in his eyes, you had seen countless times in the midst of a brawl. With a swift motion you avoid the rising hand that was now aiming at your cheek. He stumbles to the front, not expecting to miss. "Shibal," he screams directly at you, feeling the anger he has more intensely. It isn’t the first time you have to dodge a slap, knowing there is no going back anymore. Like in old times, you study the situation – every movement, every little detail about your surroundings. You need to know what your opponent is about to do. How you can use the things around you to obtain an advantage. You feel your old self banging at the wall you set up inside yourself a while ago, and you cannot help but let it break through.   Even if you fought a lot in your past, you are a bit rusty due to your lack of exercise. But hey, no risk no fun, right?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It's six of them. Too many. But starting with the one that seems to be their leader might scare them a bit, since they clearly underestimate you. That will buy some time to leave with the boys on the floor. You look at their exhausted and scared, pale faces once again, catching their collective shivering, which is almost imperceptible and speaks volumes of their terror. Long story short... You seize the moment of surprise, your foot lashing out in a swift, precise kick aimed at the balls of the bully who held you seconds ago. A strangled gasp escapes him as he sinks to his knees, not expecting your next move, already approaching. Before he can react, your fist shoots out, connecting with a sickening thud against his left eye. The others, just as you'd anticipated, are frozen, their shock palpable as they witness their leader's swift defeat. "Run!" you bark at the boys, who are as surprised as the bullies, but listen to your sharp and commanding voice. Except for one... The badly injured boy, stubbornly unconscious, has a crimson stain blooming on the pavement beneath his head.

You find yourself between the decision of helping him and risking a bloody fight or leaving without him. "No trouble your ass," you mutter under your breath, your muscles coiling in preparation for the inevitable fight. In the meantime, the leader groans, pushing himself up with agonizing slowness, clutching his injured groin. "Take that bitch down!" he roars, his voice thick with pain and fury.

Round 1!

A thick-necked guy with closely cropped hair charges forward, swinging a clumsy punch that telegraphs his intentions a mile away. Instead of meeting his brute force, you sidestep, narrowly avoiding his fist, and your hand instinctively grabs the heavy terracotta flowerpot sitting precariously on the ledge of a house's window next to the 7-Eleven. As he stumbles past his missed strike, you swing the pot, not to smash it, but to fling a handful of loose soil and grit directly into his face. He roars in surprise and claps his hands to his eyes, momentarily blinded.

Another one of his cronies, leaner and faster, sees his chance and lunges. But your attention is already elsewhere. You quickly reach for the plastic name tag pinned to your school uniform. With a sharp tug, you rip it free. As he comes at you, you grip the rigid plastic tightly between your fingers, using the pointed corner – ironically bearing your own name – to deliver a quick, stinging jab to the side of his neck, targeting a pressure point, leaving a message. He gasps, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sharp pain and the sheer audacity of the attack, giving you the opening to maneuver.  

Shortly after, some passersby step in, saying the police is nearby, which leads to the attackers finally leaving.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The cloying scent of blood and sweat, the unwelcome aroma of the day, assaults your nostrils once again. You kneel beside the injured boy, the sticky warmth of his blood radiating faintly. His eyelids flutter open, revealing unfocused, pain-filled eyes. "Hey, you alright?" you ask gently, your voice shows a stark contrast to the earlier command, as you fumble for your phone to call an ambulance. The boy seems to have lost his voice due to the pain and shock he just experienced. You can feel the adrenaline slowly fading, and even if you are not as weak as you pretended for a long time, your knees are just like jelly in that moment.

What you just did surprises you. You just have to think about Him. He would be proud, but also disappointed. He, the one who taught you to fight. He, the reason you never wanted to fight again.

But if you were brutally honest, you liked it. You liked the feeling of being in a fight, blood boiling, and always thinking about a divine move that made them lose against you, even if no one would ever bet on you. You find yourself being proud of something you wanted to ban from your life and even promised it to your dad and Him.

"Not bad," you suddenly hear from the direction of the dark alley, where you noticed the smoking figure before. A tall, slim guy, wearing an orange windbreaker and glasses, comes in your direction. You have to admit he looks quite handsome, walking casually with one hand in his pocket while the other has a cigarette between two fingers. You look at him a bit confused, but curious about what exactly he wants. "What do you mean?" "Your fighting. Not bad for a girl." The way you hate these words – for a girl – why is it always this statement? Unfazed, you turn around to finally go home. Gladly, the groceries are still all in the bag and mostly fine, after you threw them away before the fight. While walking, you perceive another pair of footsteps right behind you, before you can hear the person that follows you saying: "No really, I didn’t expect someone like you to be that tough. You turned them into cowards, which gives me a reason to beat them even more later. Thanks, sweetheart." Now you are even more confused about this guy than before. "You saw all that?" You keep your cool until you realize what it means... "So you were there the whole time and just watched? You know them? Are you behind the attack against the other students?" You stop walking and look at him furiously. He just smiles with that damn smile and look in his eyes. A look without any regret, rather just amusement. "Maybe, but sweetheart, it seems like you can handle yourself. No need to step in," he says, super relaxed. "You fucking–" you start but stop in anger, just continuing walking towards home. The guy laughs and just looks at you from behind.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

In bed, you cannot stop thinking about what happened. The usual morning at school ended in a sidequest, which seems to be just the beginning of something that may change your life for the time being. In your head, you replay the whole fight you went through and study all the movements you remember. How could you improve your attacks for your next fight... A next fight... three words you never thought would be formed like that in your head again... but they did and you do not regret... not at all... just that you didn’t hit that damn gummy smile of the windbreaker guy...

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

Thank you so much for reading so far! I wanted to create atmosphere and some depth, why its quite a long start without the pairing actually know each other 😅 It's my first work ever so i hope you like it (please leave some feeback hehe). Would you like part 2?

picture was generated with Ai

[ironwoman359]

I haven't done anything like this in awhile, so let's go for it!

Overall rating - 8/10 I think!

Mental health rating - 7-8/10, there are the bad days that pull it further down and it feels impossible to get above an 8 in the *gestures at everything* state of the world right now? but personally, I'm doing pretty good.

Outfit rating - 8-9/10, I wish I had some more cute skirts/dresses and my shoe situation is dire, but overall I dress very librarian coded right now, which I enjoy.

Age - 29

Height - 5'10" (maybe 10.5? I just think that @mug-of-beans is shorter than they think they are ;) )

Grade - Been out of school for over 5 years (and I don't even teach anymore, I'm out out)

Confidence - 9/10 I think, probably usually between a 7 and 8 but I just got a haircut yesterday and I look Cute <3

Happiness - I have days I'm at a 7 (on account of the horrors) and days I'm at a 10 (on account of the world is beautiful), so overall I'd say a solid 8.5/10

Gender - Woman, but in like, a warrior queen or fairy princess or magical librarian type of way.

Sexuality - Still ace, still loving it!

Romantic - idk if I mentioned it on main anywhere but I ID as biromantic now....take THAT 'cishetace' bullies from my anons 8 years ago!!! (heteromantic aces are still valid, being biromantic doesn't make me any "more" queer than I was before, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise)

Favourite food - Fettuccine Alfredo (or mac n cheese if I'm feeling more basic)

Favourite show - Leverage

Favourite film - Right this second, it's either John Wick, The Batman, or Speed Racer.

Favourite song - 1121 by Halsey, or Power Creep by @theinvisiblespoon (i have that shit on loop constantly <3)

Favourite artist - If you forced me to choose right now, probably Aurora, but I'm on a playlist kick rather than an album kick at the moment.

Relationship status - Married and loving every second of it <3

Favourite colour - Purple and pink!

Favourite season - Spring or summer

Followers - On this blog, it's 9,911 and been hovering near there for quite awhile (I don't really attract a lot new followers here anymore but I think it'd be really funny if I got 88 followers and then NO MORE)

I already bugged @mug-of-beans and @theinvisiblespoon here, gonna also bother @thuriweaver, @randomslasher, @stillebesat, @thegremlinprince, and anyone else who feels like it!

Month Review - April Edition !

Overall Rating - 7/10

life.

Mental Health Rating - 8/10

eh pretty okay????

Outfit Rating - 8/10

ate a bunch got a shirt i really like

End of April Stats!

Age: won’t say but minor

Height: 5’5

Grade: won’t say

Confidence: 6/10

Happiness: 6/10

Gender: genderfluid

Sexuality: demisexual

Romantic: demi too or aroflux

Fav food: yogurt

Fav show: adventure time or helluva boss

Fav movie: lego batman

Fav song: wet by dazey and the scounts and the weezer rift

Fav artist: maybe conan gray

Relationship status: taken taken taken by the best boyfriend in the worldddd

Fav colour: green

Fav season: winter

Followers: 1140

[therivercrow]

Another Rook Ask Game

The lovely @robinsea sent me this Rook Ask Game - original post by @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends.

There's quite a few questions, so my answers for Alana are beneath the cut:

1. Did Rook have any crushes within their faction before they left with Varric?

Alana had a fledgling crush on Teia (because who doesn't?) and had a brief one-night thing with Noa de Acutis while they were on a stakeout together.

2. Is your Rook allergic to anything?

Erm...other people's bullshit? Does that count? Nah, no allergies as far as I know.

3. Sweet or Savory snacks?

Both - dark chocolate covered coffee beans are their favourite.

4. What movie genre would they like best?

Probably stuff that's kind of arty and weird and makes some abstract point about loneliness or memory. If they watched any assassin/spy movies they'd be the one pointing out all the things the film gets wrong and how it really doesn't work like that.

5. Favorite Season? Why?

Spring, because the lilacs are in bloom.

6. What’s their favorite hobby/interest?

Cooking with Lucanis, playing the elven bass, reading trashy novels that Bellara lends them.

7. Favorite type of jewelry? (Rings/Necklaces/Bracelets)

Alana's not one for jewellery - it gets in the way in a fight. But a couple of well-placed rings can add impact to a punch, so those.

8. What is your Rook’s favorite animal?

Cats! They absolutely stop to pet every cat in Thedas, and want to adopt one (or several) after all this business with the gods is dealt with.

9. Pick a song from their playlist. What is it, and what made you choose it?

Within Temptation - Stand My Ground.

This one opens my "Songs for Rook" playlist and encapsulates Alana's attitude:

Though this might just be the ending of the life I held so dear / But I won't run, there's no turning back from here...

10. What is a random quirk your Rook has?

They're unable to stay still, Alana is always fidgeting, twitching, just constant movement.

11. Extrovert or Introvert?

Introvert. They love the Veilguard team, but they absolutely need to take time to themself to recharge, usually on the top balcony of the lighthouse with a coffee.

12. Something that annoys your Rook?

Bureaucracy and petty politics (looking at you, governor Ivenci!)

13. What languages does your Rook know?

Common/Trade, Antivan, Tevene, some Orlesian, a few phrases in elven and Qunlat (mostly swears in the latter).

14. Are they ticklish?

Nobody ever gets close enough to find out.

15. If your Rook could do anything, no repercussions, what would they do?

Punch governor Ivenci in the face.

16. Would your Rook make a good villain?

For Alana to become a villain, they would have to lose everything and everyone they care for so that their rage is the only thing left. They'd be terrifying and destructive - the kind who just wants to burn the world because they can't live in it any longer. I...don't like thinking about that.

17. What does your Rook do to wind down after a stressful day (like post Weisshaupt)?

Their Crow training exercises. The rhythm of martial arts, weapons drills, magical training gives them a sense of stability when everything else feels unstable.

18. Your Rook discovered a portal to another fictional world. Where did they end up? (And how screwed are they?)

So, Faerun was the obvious choice but I watched Arcane recently and like the idea of them ending up in the Undercity. They're a magic assassin, so they'd be fine - probably end up running the place.

19. How easy is it to get your Rook out of bed in the morning?

Alana's an early riser, unless they've had a long night (either on a contract or just...a big night at the Hilt or Cobbled Swan) and then they'll sleep til noon.

20. How organized is your Rook?

Meticulously. Crow training, especially with Viago, taught them to always have everything in its place. Weapons cleaned and racked properly, Crow leathers hanging up to avoid wrinkles, potions in clearly labelled bottles in a proper potion chest. Their room is like a military barracks and they like it that way.

[nice-and-accurate-fictions]

Enemies to lovers

Aaaahhh, enemies/rivals to lovers is by far my favourite human AU trope. The bickering! The banter! The sexual tension! The rom-com vibes! I love them and would love to read much more of them. Keep the recs coming in the reblogs!

Whickber Uni's Lonely Heart Club, by ineffabildaddy. Rated E, 21k. P. Apr 25.

Lovely human, college, enemies to lovers AU. Aziraphale and Crowley are co-president of Whickber Uni's Book Club. They hardly tolerate each other. They are organising a valentine's social event for the club. Need I add more? I loved this version of our ineffables, their strengths and vulnerabilities are so in character and yet so relatable, their humour and banter are great, and they're just so adorable!

The Anon Before Christmas by foolishlovers. Rated E, 66k. P. Mar 24.

Ah. Where to begin. Every now and then, you read a fiction that just makes you feel at home. Makes you feel like you’re in safe hands. Like you’re in for a real treat. This absolute gem has very quickly become my favourite human AU. For several reasons.  The characterisation of the two main characters is absolutely spot on. I could hear Crowley talking in DT’s Crowley voice and see him moving in DT’s Crowley way, and I could hear Aziraphale talking in MS’s Aziraphale voice and see him moving in MS’s Aziraphale way. The pace of the development of their relationship from enemies to lovers is just perfect. It’s told from Crowley’s POV and you can see how his perspective changes as the story progresses, but the writer is so good that Aziraphale’s change of perspective shows perfectly through Crowley’s POV too. The array of side characters is so good that it actually pains me to call them side characters. I wrote in one of my comments to the fiction that I will forever adore this story’s Bee, and I meant it, but Newt and Ana are equally fantastic (and I loved the other cameos too!). Also, and this is especially important to me, this story is as much a love story between Crowley and Aziraphale as it is a story of true friendship among all the characters. They look after each other, they have each other’s back, they support each other. I am so lucky and privileged to be able to see myself represented in that aspect of the story. Last but not least, this fiction doesn't overstay its welcome one bit. You are happy about how everyone ended up, but still could read more. It’s like you are part of the gang and want to know what your friends are up to. Everything in this story was perfect. I realise I haven’t mentioned what the plot is about, but hopefully by now you might want to find out for yourself!

The Shared Desk Dilemma, by MissUnderstoodLyrics. Rated E, 32k.

Fantastic enemies to lovers human AU. This is one of those stories I read a long time ago (you probably did, too), and I still remember all the feels and the giggles it gave me. Professor Anthony Crowley is starting a new job at Eden University. He has to share an office and a desk with Professor Aziraphale Eastgate. Of course the two men can't stand each other. Sexual tension and deep feelings ensue.

Married At First Sight, by Aracloptia. Rated T, 146k. P. Dec 23.

A new classic! I doubt anyone reading these lists might have missed this fic, but let me tell you how much I loved it anyway! As the title suggests, Aziraphale and Crowley take part in the reality Married At First Sight. It's hate at first sight for our two heroes, unfortunately, but the slow burn that follows must be one of the sweetest things I've read in fiction. Crowley and Aziraphale both come a long way to understand each other and let their guard down, and the whole process is just marvelous to witness. And, no, I've never watched a single episode of the show Married At First Sight either, you really don't need to in order to enjoy this fabulous fiction. Lovely array of side characters to top it all up!

Or Be Nice, by charlottemadison. Rated E, 151 k. P. Jun 22.

I think this enemies to lovers, neighbours AU needs no introduction. If it does, drop everything you are doing and go and read it. 

Fire, bridges and other sensible idioms, by KiaraMGrey. Rated E, 46k. P. Aug 21.

This wonderful, funny, witty fiction had me hooked up from the first sentence! Aziraphale has a new neighbour and things don't run smoothly. Hilarious enemies-to-lovers human AU with some of the best hot scenes I've ever read. Seriously, go and read it!

Mon Horrible Chéri, by ghostrat. Rated E, 40k. P. Nov 23.

I do have a soft spot for enemies-to-lovers AU. This one doesn't disappoint one bit. Crowley and Aziraphale teach science and literature in the same high school and they hate each other (aw... how cute are they when they hate each other whilst being attracted to each other?). When Beelzebub is injured just before the school trip to Paris, Aziraphale has to step in to replace them. When he agreed he didn't know that the other teacher accompanying the children was Crowley. Everything you're looking for in a sweet, funny, romantic enemies to lovers fiction ensues. Highly, highly recommended. 

[darcyolsson]

avery explicitly using the word 'throuple' to refer to the three of them, ody3 hot tub cuddling sesh, captain massey referring to said cuddling as '...whatever this is', a joke about the threesome, a 'you can love two people at once' speech delivered by quinn fabray playing a hallucinated dead wife (also in a hot tub), avery sneaking both max and tristan into the operating room for her surgery... i can't quite believe it but a throuple endgame on doctor odyssey is actually fully within reach

[bumbleweeded]

snapshots

[blue-eli]

Ink October day 11: Firebreak

A strip of land that has been cleared, plowed, or planted with fire-resistant vegetation to prevent a fire from spreading.

[seaofreverie]

Sparkstember Day 10: Whomp That Sucker (Where's My Girl)

A good time!!! That's the first thing I associate with this album. It's one of the earlier ones I've heard too and I was certainly a big fan of it from the very start. Not only that, but I think it was a bit of a groundbreaking point in my experience as a new Sparks fan, since I was trying to figure out where to go next and this was a good plunge somewhere in the midst of it all that proved that no matter where you go, you're going to get something special! And after a couple more months (I mean, it's been a bit over a year since that first listen already! How time flies) it still holds up in my personal rankings. Soooo well. Definitely very special to me!

I think it's safe to say by now that between the pair of Whomp and Angst I'll always stay partial to Whomp. The latter seems to be much more popular among fans, and I can understand that, but something about Whomp speaks to me much more. Both are fun, energetic new-wavey albums, still in the realm of rock but with some cool use of synths that would soon become even more important and a core element of the music. Still though, I think Whomp is more PURE fun - between many hilarious lyrics and the overall playful and lighthearted nature of it, I don't think it's possible to listen to this one and not feel even a little bit happier afterwards.

I especially love the whole atmosphere of it, what I call the spacey / sparkly synth, that gives it a little bit of an outer space feel, much moreso than the actual album called In Outer Space (but i'd better not get ahead of myself yet when it comes to that one, lol). This album really feels sparkly and even glittery to me in a weird way, and unexplainably, this all reminds me of like, sweets and chocolates like those cosmic brownies or daim candy?? That's what this album would taste like to me! Sweet and a little extra and always a good little treat. Damn, and now I want to try a cosmic brownie.

Favourite songs (and other highlights):

I don't even have that many personal favourites from this album even though I really really love it as a whole!! I guess it's a bit of a Propaganda situation, where there isn't that many super big standouts compared to the rest of the tracks, they're all just very cool and I mostly don't have that much to say about them individually, they're all just!! So fun!! (I mean, ok, Suzie Safety might be the only one here that I don't care about all that much. I'm sorry, Suzie.) So this is more of a Moments list than anything

I Married A Martian: mostly I'm just incredibly charmed by the story here

Where's My Girl: AARGHHH!!! WAAUUGHGH!!! I LOVE THIS SONG!!!! SO MUCH!!!! The closest I can come to describing the feeling here is something like... song you heard a couple times when you were very young, enough that you remember how it goes when you hear it again, but can't recall it on the spot otherwise, and you forget about the song's existence until you hear it again after all those years and are hit by the biggest wave of nostalgia and longing for the past that you've ever experienced in your life. All that despite me never hearing this song until last year. Or is there just something I'm not aware of... Anyway, this was one of those rare and treasured moments of THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR!! *MY* MUSIC!! Needless to say, this song stayed on repeat countless of times and I will never get over how awesome this guitar solo is. And again, the spacey synth!!

Upstairs: upstAAAAAAirs!!! upstAAAAAAirs!!!

Don't Shoot Me: big fan of the whole thing but I'm especially charmed by the little high-pitched "shoot!"s and such in the background, and "WHO'S HEEE???"

The Willys: the song itself isn't even my fav but the PHYSICALLY! MENTALLY! MORALLY! part is always very chuckle-worthy. That's the wondrous humour I'm talking about here

That's Not Nastassia: Sparks songs with uncomfortably long endings my beloved... can also be pretty hilarious under the right circumstances (like listening to the vinyl of this album with my dad and watching his reaction). And can't forget how cool the transition into the last song is

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔

[karaspal]

supergirl while being on cbs (season one) was genuinely bad. sorry to the people who like it, but to me, it’s mostly white feminism and two-dimensional characters with no real depth (including kara, who they refused to write as an actual adult). the show, as well as kara’s characterisation, got so so much better once it moved to the cw (which says a lot).

[sysig]

I’m turning you all into marketable plushies, you watch (Patreon)

Bonus eyes because embroidery brain:

[yandere-yearnings]

Do you have any book recommendations?

this is the ask that has me vv embarrassingly admitting that the last time i picked up a book was around three years ago bc we were studying it in school😭 i actually hate reading w/ a burning passion, so the list of books ive finished is small and the list of books i like enough to recommend is practically non-existent. nonnie i'm sorry i'm completely useless in this department😔💔

that being said, dostoevsky isn't everyone's cup of tea but i like his stuff so if his brand of storytelling is up your alley i'd say looking into his works wouldn't be a waste of time. crime & punishment and the idiot are some of the more notable ones (for good reason) iirc the double was my introduction to him and netochka nezvanova was never finished but the start was promising enough,, i'm not abt to make this a book review tho so i'll stop there ahaha🤧

[ace-malarky]

Happy Blorbo Blursday!

No question today, just give us a ramble about a character you don't usually get a chance to ramble about!

Beloved, I have so many characters I have never rambled about but also ok we're doing side characters with Relevance now so it's Drassa's turn

by the time of any story we see her in, she's a retired adventurer, well respected if distant member of society, definitely nobility if a bit strange, and

of course

our boy Jasper's mother

(and also the character I played in the game that spawned them both. No I don't know why Jasper then got the limelight but it's better this way because I can just allude to all of Drassa's stuff rather than having to write it)

Except! no one knows she is Jasper's mother because she is Unwed and Respectable and Surely Drassa Would Never so he's obviously just like. a foster child or a distant relative's because she is so Sweet and Noble, of course she would Help Out to give him a good start in life

but anyway. She starts life as like. almost a normal kid, actually! She's friendly, she has a family! There's no tragic backstory here, she's just kinda bored with it all. She just has a hankering for something more and, being stubborn and unwilling to listen to people telling her to cool her jets and also No, she just strikes out with whatever group is going and learns fast how to fake everything. She isn't a fighter but my god can she talk her way into and out of everything! In a world of elves and orcs and lizardfolk where they haven't quite forgotten that humans are only so many generations out of being colonisers, with no access to the magic of the world, she's got to be smart about it and she is. She moonlights as a thief for a little bit (this is how she meets her main party/friends) but rather than stealth, her strategy is to act like she owns the place and not give anyone an opening to suggest that she doesn't

Her main party/friends are a lizardfolk & elf couple who have their own enemies-to-lovers arc already sorted by the time they meet Drassa, and they become very ride-or-die in the... ten or so years that they hang out together. despite claiming that they themselves are retired at that point. they couldn't resist Drassa's charm either

I am still somewhat hazy on how she meets Jasper's dad. it was probably just for a good time! Jasper definitely wasn't planned! (and had she known about the curse, she probably wouldn't have gone there but my god she would have liked to have known before it all explosively comes to light)

but when she realises she's pregnant, she figures she's got to make sure the kid isn't like. caught in the little circle of enemies she's getting known by? So she enlists her friends to help her get off world (fraud is committed), sets herself up as Rich Aristocrat (crimes are committed, but politely), and settles herself in for a life of refined ease. There is absolutely never a moment where she goes "ha this kid is going to be someone else's problem I'm too busy" she just fully adapts to being a single parent

but ok yes, she's looking after a kid and settling into her place in society with her big house and her garden and the servants that she pays to help out when she has to, and as Jasper grows up she finds she's just. she's missing it all! She wasn't aiming for retirement this early, but she's got a kid, man, and by god is he going to grow up in safety and with the freedom to get into whatever the fuck he wants!

so she might still be doing some light facilitating and blackmail and information gathering on the side. Oh I need to write in her and Nuvian knowing each other, that's a necessity. You know she's working with our travelling crime merchant! He's definitely fencing stuff for her!

and she doesn't exactly keep this quiet from Jasper & Llinos but I think they're definitely mostly laboring under the idea that she's retired (or at least only still has like the vaguest of historic links to it all), so when they come back to find that her past has come back to bite, they're a little surprised to find that she's holding her own in whatever form the fight has taken haha

Tamhas and Tadhg do not know any of it, and this is for everyone's safety. It's bad enough that they wriggled their way into crime as it is, but at least it's where Drassa can keep an eye on them. This is why they panic when they realise that Drassa is in trouble, and like while she appreciates the back up it was not entirely necessary! She'd got herself out of tighter fixes before and she'll do it again