Archive of Our Own

“Babe,” says Trinity over facetime, barely visible in the bright sun of the beach she’s sprawled out at, “it’ll be so easy, don’t even worry.”

“I know,” says Samira, walking up the path to the house and feeling extremely out of place, “but you’re sure your dad won’t mind? He thinks you’re the one housesitting.”

“He’s at a conference in like, fucking Belgium or something, I don’t know, I promise he won’t even notice.”

There’s some shouting and giggling in the background and then Dennis’s extremely pink face pops over Trinity’s shoulder. “Hey Samira.”

“Hey,” she says, and wants to say more but there’s some shouting offscreen, and giggling, and then Trinity half-screams.

“Gotta go! You’ll be fine!” The call ends.

“Right,” says Samira, to no one, and then keys in the entry code on the fancy lock.

The entryway is … well the whole house is just absurd. Bright, open, but still somehow warm. Lived-in but in a way where Architectural Digest could swing by at any moment for a photoshoot. It’s ridiculous. Her lounge sets and ratty backpack and eighty five books are going to be such an eyesore. Even if no one’s around to see it.

Still. The plants do look a little wilted. And if she can’t go to the beach because she’s trying to finish this stupid senior thesis, then at least she can have a little vacation in Squirrel Hill’s fanciest converted carriage house. She’ll just be really, really careful not to touch anything.

Just as she thinks this, a tiny head pops cautiously out from around a corner and gives a soft little mraow.

“Oh!” says Samira, crouching down and holding out a hand, “You must be Cleo.”

Cleo the calico comes slinking down the hallway, gives Samira’s hand a cautious sniff, and then immediately flops over, tilting her head for scritches.

“Excellent,” says Samira, “We’ll get along fine.”

Cleo trots about six inches away from Samira as she explores the house. She’s not entirely sure what bed she’s supposed to sleep in. One is clearly Trinity’s, tidy but with an air of imminent chaos, but the other two are sort of indistinguishably nice. They both have en-suites, both have enormous king beds, both have walk-in closets. The only clue to which belongs to Trinity’s dad and which is the guest room is that one closet is filled with suits and other obviously masculine clothing, and the other is full of carefully labeled boxes and garment bags. She thinks this must be Trinity’s late mother’s things, and closes the closet carefully.

The first night is uncomfortable. She’s so afraid of breaking things — not that she has a habit of breaking plates and glasses and decorative ceramics, but maybe there’s some kind of dormant clumsiness lurking within her that only comes to expression in other people’s fancy houses. She orders takeout and uses the plastic utensils it comes with, drinks out of her water bottle, tries to keep the radius of her presence to a bare minimum.

Cleo, at least, seems to appreciate this level of tidiness. She’s a very fastidious cat. Once, Samira knocks her shitty takeout paper napkin to the floor and Cleo looks at her with an expression of unimpressed disdain.

But when Samira finally climbs into bed, forces herself to relax, Cleo hops up right along side her and tucks herself in between Samira’s legs, and together they fall asleep.

She wakes up to a text from Trinity reminding her to relax, seriously, enjoy the house have fun!!! wine in the wine cooler go nuts!!! She rolls her eyes, but it helps, just a little, and her second day in the house is much more relaxed than the first. She doesn’t dare to touch the wine cooler — she’s not even sure she knows what a wine cooler would look like— but she lets herself use one of the glasses, one of the bowls. She eats a banana from the fruit basked because she can’t imagine it’ll be good by the time Trinity’s dad comes back from wherever he is. She spreads her books out on the dining room table.

The next day she's even braver. She uses two different glasses, tries the coffee machine (after watching several tutorials so she doesn't break it), and eats another banana. She even — and she’s proud of herself for this level of bravery — lets herself work on the couch instead of just at the kitchen island. She finishes edits on one chapter, starts editing another, and then falls down a research rabbit hole that ends in her completely taking over the tasteful mid century coffee table with books, looking for the reference she forgot to footnote earlier. She forgets to be anxious, just for a bit, and by the time she can’t ignore her grumbling stomach any longer and heats up her leftovers, she’s feeling much more at home.

As the evening progresses, she even makes herself a cup of tea in a charmingly lumpy — clearly handmade, she assumes a childhood Trinity project — mug that she finds in the cabinet. She’s discovered, as she’s let herself relax into the space, that even though there’s an overall level of sophisticated style to the house, it’s embellished with tons of handmade projects — a misshapen blanket draped over the chair, the lumpy mug, a number of handmade plywood plant stands of varying levels of skill — that make the place feel even warmer. It’s just … it’s just a lovely place.

And it’s so cozy, so comfortable; every piece of furniture is deep and plump and perfect, and even as she tries to focus, the couch is so soft and the blanket is so warm and Cleo is purring loudly on her lap, and she can probably shut her eyes, just for a minute …

A soft clunk stirs her awake, and Cleo is hopping up onto her stomach, shockingly heavy for such a tiny creature, and Samira lets out a soft oof and opens her eyes. She’s fully reclined on the couch and bright morning light is streaming in from all the windows. She squeezes her eyes shut and groans. “Oh no.” She slept way too long.

“Oh yes,” comes a rough voice.

Samira is suddenly wildly, violently awake. She sits straight up, ignoring the dizziness, and meets the amused hazel eyes of a very, very handsome man sitting in the armchair across from her.

Oh, fuck.

Jack’s first thought on stepping in to his house is that Trinity must really have turned over a new leaf with her new senior housing because she has never left her shoes in such a neat line by the front door. It usually looks like all of her outer layers exploded off of her at once.

He supposes that now that she lives in a real apartment with other senior friends, she’s been forced to become a bit more civilized.

He’s congratulating himself on this bit of excellent parenting as he rounds the corner into the open living room and sees one long, long leg draped on the back of the couch, brown and toned and lovely, and that’s when he realizes he’s been the victim of a break-in.

He hears the soft heavy breathing of someone who is sound asleep, and chances a peek over the side of the couch.

For a single, slightly mortifying moment, Jack wonders if he’s been visited by some sort of supernatural presence. He’s never seen someone so … “beautiful” feels like underselling it. She looks like a pre-Raphaelite painting, if the pre-Raphaelites painted — he looks over at the books and papers strewn over the coffee table — stressed-out public health majors who went to Carnegie Mellon.

If he had to guess, this is Trinity’s elusive third roommate, the one he’s never met because she’s at the library every time he drops by to make sure Trinity eats something more substantial than protein bars and ramen every month or so.

It doesn’t answer the question of why she’s in his house, and actually raises quite a few more, including the whereabouts of his actual daughter, but a quick examination of the credit card statement he pays for will probably reveal a plane ticket or two.

He’s about to carry his suitcase to his room — no point in wheeling it down the hallway and waking up his pretty little home intruder — when Cleo rounds the corner with a delighted little braap and flops down at his feet.

“Hello girl,” he says in a whisper, “let’s let our guest keep sleeping.”

With that, he scoops her up and goes to get himself settled.

When he’s showered and unpacked, he heads back down to the kitchen to make himself and his new housemate a cup of tea. She’s still sound asleep, so as Jack settles down in the armchair across from her, he’s treated to an uninterrupted view of miles of lovely brown curves.

It’s absurdly self-indulgent of him, and not a little perverted, but — well, he’s only human. He doesn’t lust after his students, god forbid, but even though this girl is clearly a student, she’s not his, so he figures he’s in the clear. And he’s not going to do anything, he can just … look. While she’s asleep. Can just admire the curve of her ass in those tight little shorts, the concave dip of her waist, the nipples pebbling her little sports bra in the cool morning air. The plush lips, the dark swoop of her eyelashes, the —

Cleo trots around his chair and hops directly up onto her lap, and she lets out a little oof, clearly startled awake.

Jack watches as she scrunches her face up, adorable and sleepy, and then abruptly realizes that she’s fallen asleep on the couch.

“Oh no,” she groans, and her voice is low, husky with sleep.

Jack’s cock, already heavy, jumps with interest, and it’s for that reason that he doesn’t really think before he laughs. “Oh yes.”

The horrified look she gives him is adorable, and so is the way she scrambles upright, dislodging an annoyed Cleo.

“Oh my god,” she says, “you must be —sorry. I thought — Trinity said —Belgium?“

He laughs again. “I was in Belgium, yeah. Now I’m not.” He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Trinity said she’d look after the house for a few days, but I can’t help but notice that you are not Trinity. “

She’s wide-eyed with flustered horror, curls tumbling everywhere. He reminds himself that she’s awake, and therefore very off-limits for any sort of … appreciation.

“Mr, um, Mr. Santos, I — I am so sorry,” she says, frantically trying to gather all the papers she’d strewn over the table. Cleo decides to help, which makes it, of course, incredibly worse.

He really should put her out of her misery but … sue him, he’s having fun.

“Trinity said it would be fine because you were gone and I needed a place to finish my thesis and she needed someone to watch your cat anyway because she was going to the beach and I was invited to the beach but I have to finish this stupid thesis and — wait. I mean —“ She cuts herself off, wrinkling her nose. “I mean, she’s not at the beach. She’s … somewhere else.”

He lets the silence hang a moment, enjoying the way she’s squirming against the couch in discomfort, and then raises an eyebrow. “You done?”

She gapes at him a moment, and then sags against the cushions in defeat. “Ugh. Yeah.”

He laughs then, because she’s so charming, and this is such a delightful surprise. “I know Trinity’s in Florida; I checked her credit card statement.”

The girl winces. He laughs again. “Thanks for looking after Cleo, though. She seems happy.”

At that, she brightens, giving him a wide smile. He bravely ignores the dimples. “Oh, she’s the best, Mr. Santos. She’s so cute.”

“It’s Abbot,” he says, cutting her off, “Santos was Trinity’s mother’s name.”

“Oh my god, Mr. Abbot, I’m so sorry, I —“

“And it’s Doctor, actually, not Mister.” She looks like she wants to sink into the floor, so he throws her a bone. “But honestly, I prefer Jack.”

She nods anxiously. “Right. Ok. Um. Doctor — I mean — Jack. RIght.”

There’s a long pause. Jack raises his eyebrows. “This would be where you tell me your name, sweetheart.”

The endearment slips out without planning, but, with the way her eyes widen and her lips part, she doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“God,” she says, laughing a little, “sorry, I’m not usually this —“ she waves a hand, “disastrous.”

She gives herself a little shake, like a puppy, and then stands and comes around the coffee table, extending a hand. “I’m Samira Mohan, Trinity’s roommate. It’s nice to meet you.”

This girl. He takes her hand, gives it a firm shake. Her fingers are so slender, her palm so small. He likes the way it’s swallowed up by his grip. And her tits are right at eye level, nipples still poking through the fabric. He bravely ignores them, meeting her eyes.

“The pleasure’s all mine, Samira. Welcome to my house. Make yourself at home.”

At that, she blushes, just a little against her lovely dark complexion, and runs a hand through her hair.

“I really am sorry. I can get out of your hair.”

He should say yes, should help her on her way, but instead what comes out of his mouth is, “Nah. You’re welcome to stay.”

She boggles at him a moment, and he boggles a little at himself. What the fuck is he thinking. She can’t be more than twenty and he already knows he’s going to jerk off about it later. He really doesn’t need the actual temptation in his actual house. But —

Well, he knows how overwhelming a big project can be, how sometimes you just need a change of environment to get your brain going again, and he really doesn’t mind. He was going to do some of his own writing for the rest of the break anyway, in between a few shifts down at the Pitt. He can handle a houseguest for a week.

“I’m serious,” he says, gesturing to her chaotic sprawl of papers and books, “Just stay. Work on your thesis somewhere that isn’t the library or your room.”

She looks at him a moment, considering, and then sort of sags into herself. “Fine. But only because I already unpacked and your guest bed is really comfortable.”

He laughs again at that, then heaves himself up. “I’m making breakfast. How do you like your eggs?”

“Oh,” she says, flustered again — god this girl is easy to work up — “you really don’t have to, Mr. — Dr. — Jack.”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “You’re a guest in my house Samira. I expect you to act like one, and that means eating breakfast when I offer.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, just a little, and her eyes are so big. She nods. “Ok. Yeah. Um. Thanks. Scrambled?”

“Excellent,” he says, then strides off to the kitchen. When she doesn’t follow, he waves her forward. “Come along, Samira.”

As Samira plops herself onto one of the kitchen island stools, she tries to organize her thoughts in some semblance of order. She always feels better when she takes stock of facts.

Fact 1 is that Trinity will have some serious answering to do. Samira had slunk away for a few minutes to the guest bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, and in that time had furiously texted Trinity a frantic combo of question marks and exclamation points. She cannot believe how badly she’s behaving — she basically broke in to this poor man’s house, uninvited, and he’d be well within his rights to just kick her out.

Which brings her to Fact 2: as awkward as she feels, and as much as she wants to run away and pretend this never happened, she actually does really want to stay here. Or, more accurately, she thinks if she has to spend any more time in her library carrel she’ll scream. Or die. Or both. She can survive another week of awkwardness if it means she actually can focus and not lose her mind. And Dr. Abbot — Jack, she reminds herself — seemed very insistent.

Which leads her to Fact 3: Jack Abbot is really, really good-looking. She actually does know a fair bit about him — Trinity, for all her griping, really does love him, and shares a lot about his life — but she didn’t know this. She knows he teaches in the med school at Pitt and also works at PTMC as an emergency department attending, that he’s a BKA with some really advanced prothestics, that he’s generous with his time and money, that he loves Trinity fiercely. But she didn’t know that he looks like … well, like this. Broad, scruffy in a refined sort of way … just hot.

Fact 4 is that she can never, ever let Trinity know that she’s crushing on her dad, even a little, because Trinity is a sweetheart with a vengeful streak a mile wide and will probably replace Samira’s shampoo with Nair or something equally evil.

As she heads back to the kitchen, Samira settles on a course of action. She’ll stay here, she’ll finish her draft and do as much editing as she can, and she’ll super subtly ogle Trinity’s dad. The vibrator she brought is pretty quiet. She’ll be fine.

If her resolve waivers a little when she comes into the kitchen and Jack turns with a plate of gorgeously scrambled eggs in his unfairly ripped arms and low-slung grey sweatpants, well. No one else needs to know.

Samira Mohan is a very sweet houseguest, all things considered. Much neater than his own daughter, at least, and thoughtful. She insists on doing the dishes after breakfast, which is very kind and also gives him a very nice view of her backside as she fusses at the sink.

He tells himself he’ll snap himself out of this after he naps, which he desperately needs to do if he has any hope of making it through his shift at the Pitt tonight. He’s literally never noticed Trinity’s friends in any kind of lascivious way, and truly doesn’t make a habit of eyeing up people who are an easy twenty years younger than him. But there’s a strange surreal quality to the morning — his jetlag, probably, and the surprise, all of it coming together to make the whole morning feel like something that exists outside the normal flow of time. When he wakes up from his nap, Samira will transform back into another sexless character in Trinity’s life, someone he knows and likes in a fatherly sort of way and nothing else.

He’ll jerk off about it first though.

Just the thought of it has him thickening in his sweatpants, and he takes that as his cue. He doesn’t actually want her to know about the direction his thoughts are taking — that’s absolutely a step too far, even for his addled jet-lagged brain.

“Gotta get a nap in before my shift later,” he says, straightening from the stool, and she turns to him with wide, uncertain eyes.

He waves off her anxiety. “Make yourself at home, seriously. There’s a nice patio if you haven’t explored yet.”

She gives him a soft smile. “Thanks. Have a good nap.”

And he does — sleeps like the dead, which is probably mostly because of his jet lag, but the glorious orgasm he rubs out to the thought of those lips, those curves, those eyes …. well, that definitely helps.

After Jack leaves, Samira feels a bit at loose ends. The adrenaline of the surprise and the ensuing social anxiety kind of drained her. She’s tempted to take her own nap, but then she thinks of the chapters of unedited garbage sitting on her computer and groans. She’ll settle for a shower.

A few hours later, she extricates herself from her mountain of papers and books that she’s migrated to the giant dining room table and checks her phone.

girl omg, Trinity said an hour ago, im SOO sorry omg i rly thought he was supposed to be gone the rest of the week

it’s ok, Samira sends back, he’s really nice! he’s letting me stay, i hope that’s ok?

Trinity writes back a minute later. lmao thats so funny but also yeah take a staycation! he usually works night shifts anyway so he prob wont even be around that much

haha, says Samira, ok. also how much trouble are you in.

a problem for future trinity.

Samira gives it an eye-rolling emoji reaction, but she figures it’s fine. Dr Abb— Jack — doesn’t seem like a super strict guy. Intense, maybe — when he’d herded her into the kitchen for breakfast she’d felt managed in a fun kind of way — but not unreasonable. Probably. She personally can’t imagine sneaking away on vacation without incurring incredible maternal wrath, but Jack seems like an altogether different sort of parent than her own mom.

It’s weird to think of him as a parent at all, actually. Dads, in her admittedly limited experience, aren’t usually so … muscular. They definitely don’t wear grey sweatpants. Maybe if she saw him with Trinity she’d feel differently, but as it stands she has a hard time putting him in the mental category of “friend’s parents.” She’s only known him for about forty-five minutes, but he seems to have carved out a new space for himself in her brain, closer to the spot reserved for older professors she has crushes on, and like all her other inappropriate crushes, she’ll enjoy it from afar and never, ever do anything about it.

With that resolved, she decides in the spirit of vacation time that she’s going to explore the patio.

Patio, as it turns out, is rather underselling it. It’s a beautiful, sunny space — gorgeous, open, but private, with pine trees obscuring the neighbors’ views and a beautiful set of lounge furniture, including a very comfortable-looking recliner, and it takes her no time at all to sprawl out on it and close her eyes. Just a little nap, and then back to work.

Jack wakes up at four in the afternoon, still a little delirious in the way international travel always makes him — plus the residual exhaustion from the conference itself, all that mingling and talking. He really has to stop saying yes to keynote requests.

He doesn’t see Samira when he first gets downstairs, and he worries for a second that she’d left, but then he hears Cleo’s plaintive yowling at the patio door.

The sight that greets him as he looks out the big glass windows is … well. His resolution to ignore Samira’s attractiveness is in tatters at the first glimpse he gets of her sprawled out on his favorite lounger, long brown limbs relaxed and sun-kissed. She’s asleep again, so he lets himself look, lets himself catalogue every inch of her, from her sweet little breasts, to the warm curve of her stomach, to the long lean thighs. Her skin looks so soft, and he lets himself revisit, just for a moment, the fantasy that he’d jerked off to before falling asleep, of getting those long long legs around his shoulders, of burying his face between her thighs, of —

She stirs, just a little, and he shakes himself out of it, slides open the door. Her eyes flutter open and she stretches languidly, arms above her head, before she catches sight of him and straightens.

“Dr. Abbot! Sorry, I fell asleep again.”

He tsks at her. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

That gets him one of those lovely dimpled smiles as she runs a hand through her curls. “It’s really lovely out here. Your garden is beautiful.”

He shrugs. “I can’t really take credit for it. That was Maria’s thing — Trinity’s mom. I just keep it up.”

She gives him another lovely smile. “That’s sweet. And she did an amazing job.”

He smiles back. “She did.”

The moment hangs, a little awkward but not unpleasant, until he remembers that he’s got places to be. “Right,” he says, slapping a hand on the door frame, “come on, I’m feeding us before I have to go into work.”

“Oh,” she says, getting up, “you really don’t have to, Dr. Abbot. I’m fine, I —“

She’s about to walk past him through the doorway, into the house, but before he can think better of it, he shoots a hand out, blocking her path. She draws up short, staring at his arm, before tracing her eyes up to meet his. Her brow is furrowed.

“Samira,” he says, “What did I ask you to call me?”

She frowns more deeply, “Sorry, I —“

“Come on,” he says, crooking a smile, “I know you remember.”

“I —“ she takes a breath, gives him a sheepish smile. “Jack. Sorry. I just — Sorry. I want to be respectful.”

This girl. He can feel his cock get heavy, ignores it. “If we’re roommates for the next week, I’m not fucking answering to Dr. Abbot the whole time, kid.” She laughs at that, and makes to move forward, but he decides he’s not quite done.

He ducks his head down, catching her eyes again. “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Samira. Especially not in my own goddamn house.”

“I —“ Her eyes are wide but she nods, adorably solemn. “Ok.”

“Excellent,” he says, and moves his arm at last. “Now come on. I’m eating, and so are you. No arguments.”

All at once, she seems to relax, and easy smile taking over her face. She salutes. “Aye-aye, captain.”

He rolls his eyes. “Brat.”

He turns around before he can see how that landed, but the soft gasp behind him makes him crook a private smile.

Gun to her head, Samira absolutely would not be able to describe the dinner she shared with Jack. It was just more of the same as breakfast — clearly some grocery shopping needed to happen soon — and she’s sure they made some kind of light conversation. It was probably really pleasant.

But as Jack cleans up and then heads out for a twelve-hour night shift at the emergency department at PTMC, all she can think about is that exchange on the patio, the way he’d ducked his head to catch her eyes, the way he’d been so insistent, but in such a patient way, like he had no doubt she’d do as he asked and was content to wait until she did it, like he knew what she was going to do and was just waiting for her to catch up.

And then of course there’d been that quick little brat, thrown out off-handedly. He probably called Trinity that all the time; he definitely didn’t mean for it to settle low in her stomach, hot and strange and exciting.

As soon as he’s gone, she tells herself that she absolutely has to lock in on this chapter, no excuses. But then she’s sitting on the couch, and keeps thinking about how he’d been watching her sleep — objectively mortifying, but heating to something darker and more exciting as her thoughts start to run away from her — and how he’d herded her around the house, and how he’d scolded her in that gentle way, and also his arms, and that stubble, and —

She realizes, abruptly, that she’s rubbing herself over her shorts, worrying the seam of the gusset into her clit. She never wears underwear with these, and she can feel how slick she’s getting, which feels ridiculous, she’s not even imagining anything really, just replaying what already happened, his voice, his —

She thinks, for one insane second, about stripping her shorts off, here, on the couch, and rubbing herself until she comes, but she has a brief flash of sanity and remembers that this is her best friend’s house, and she’ll never be able to look Trinity in the eyes again.

She huffs a sigh then, considering. She could — should— stay down here, plugging away diligently … or …

She’s upstairs in her bedroom in about thirty seconds flat. It takes her another minute to find the cheap little bullet vibrator at the bottom of her toiletries bag, and then she’s sprawling out on the bed, shorts flung somewhere, and from there it takes an embarrassingly short time until she’s gasping, bowing up from the bed as she comes harder than she has in months.

She’s back downstairs fifteen minutes after that, and the orgasm seems to have loosened something in her brain, relaxed some of her tired synapses, because the work flows so easily after that, smooth as can be.

She’s even in bed at a reasonable hour, for her. It’s not even two in the morning as she crawls beneath the sheets, vibrator in hand, and comes again to the memory of Jack Abbot softly calling her a brat.

By the time Jack’s back from his shift, he’s almost forgotten about his little home intruder. His leg aches something awful, and the jet lag’s finally really catching up to him. He needs a shower and he needs a real, proper eight hours of sleep. He managed to stop by the Giant Eagle with the last reserves of his energy, so at least he’ll wake up to actual food in the house. He definitely doesn’t have the energy to cook anything now.

Cleo meets him at the door, flopping around until he scoops her up and dangles her upside down the way she likes it, until she wriggles away and gallops off into the house.

He’s putting away the groceries when Samira comes into the kitchen, looking soft and sleepy and … jesus christ. Any hope he’d entertained during the last twelve hours that his fixation on her would go away with proper distraction flies out the window. Jesus. It’s not even that he’s attracted to her — though he very very much is. It’s that she’s just so … he’s not sure he’s ever seen a more effortlessly beautiful woman.

“Hey,” she says, bright and dimply, “how was the shift?”

He waves a hand. “The usual. Pulled a fork out of someone’s earlobe, though.”

She leans over the island in excitement. “No way.”

He tells her about that, and then she has follow-up questions, and then they’re discussing a recent article in AJEM that she’s citing for her thesis, and then before he realizes it, he’s cooked two plates of eggs and toast and cut up kiwis, and she’s accepting one with a delighted grin, and all his plans for immediate bed time go out the window.

Eventually, he can’t stifle a yawn, and she stops mid-question. “Oh god, you must be exhausted. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, and finds that he means it. “It’s nice to talk shop.”

She looks shyly pleased. “Yeah?”

He needs to extricate himself before he develops any more fondness for this girl. “Yeah,” he says, a little gruff, and then he excuses himself.

He spends about half his shower reminding himself not to jerk off to thoughts of her, and then spends the second half doing it anyway.

Samira doesn’t see or hear Jack for most of the day, and now that she’s finally exorcised whatever terrible horny demon took hold of her last night, she feels ready to truly, actually lock in.

And she does. By midday, she’s finished another chapter’s worth of editing and is on her second cup of tea in her favorite lumpy mug. She’s taken over most of the dining room table, sprawling in the way she loves to work but rarely is able to. Her headphones are delivering productive chill low-fi study playist hits, and she’s in a flow state.

It’s for this reason that she misses the appearance of Jack until he’s rapping his knuckles against the table to get her attention, and she nearly jumps a foot in the air.

“Fuck,” she says, “sorry, I was in the zone.”

He laughs. “I figured. Just letting you know I’m heading to the gym. Need anything while I’m out?”

It’s then that she takes in his appearance. He’s got those distracting grey sweatpants on again, but has paired them with a workout shirt that’s probably meant to fit loosely but strains under the swell of his pecs and biceps and a variety of other muscles she really should remember from her anatomy class but can’t, due to the … well, everything.

“Right,” she says, a little hoarsely, “um. Well. Have fun.”

He raises an eyebrow until she remembers the actual question. “Oh! Sorry. No, no, I’m good. Have fun, um. Exercising.”

“I will,” he says, “stay out of trouble.” And then: he winks, actually winks at her, and it should be annoying, or embarrassing, or cringe, but instead it just sends a bolt of heat through her.

She doesn’t quite manage a response before he turns away and heads out the door. She watches him leave, and then turns back to her work to find Cleo sitting on the table, looking at her with what Samira thinks is an unfair level of judgement.

“Hush, you,” she says, pointing at her.

She works a little more, even though her focus is shot now, and editing footnotes is never fun at the best of times, and she’s just starting to feel like she’s earned some couch rotting time, when the front door opens and all of her higher brain function goes out the window.

Jack is … Well. He’s — she tries to take everything in before he notices her ogling him, but all her brain can register is fleeting impressions of sweat and bulk. She has never once in her life considered pit stains attractive, but now … and the way his curls are plastered against his neck … She squirms a little, in her chair as she looks, and looks again.

A throat clears. She jerks her gaze up, mortified, to find Jack staring at her with a teasing little smile crooked on the side of his mouth. He doesn’t say anything, just raises one eyebrow slowly until she looks away, breaking the moment. Suddenly the wood grain of the table is incredibly interesting.

Her close reading of the table surface is interrupted by a sudden hot presence behind her, and a hand coming down on the back of her chair. She can feel him — smell him, and she’s cataloguing that as another thing she’d never found attractive before — but can’t quite bring herself to look at him, or move, or even breathe. She stares straight ahead, trying so hard to hold still that she’s pretty sure she’s vibrating.

The moment holds, stretches, and just as she’s about to turn and ask what the hell he’s doing, a sweating iced matcha suddenly appears in front of her.

She does turn then, just a little, to look at him in surprise. “I —“ She doesn’t know what to say.

He leans down to grab a coaster, slipping it under the cup, and she whips her head back so she’s staring straight ahead again, takes a deep breath.

“Figured you’d earned a treat. For working so hard.” He says it right into her ear, a low almost-whisper, and she feels goosebumps erupt down her neck. It takes everything in her not to shiver.

She’s about to say — something, anything, but then as quickly as he’d come, he’s gone, striding away further into the house.

She sighs. She’s so fucked.

Jack is so fucked. “What are you doing,” he says to his mirror, already fogging up with the steam from the shower he’s running. “Get it the fuck together.”

He looks down at himself and grimaces. He can’t believe he’d done that, gotten so closer to her, when he was so fucking sweaty and gross. He probably reeks. Still — she hadn’t seemed that perturbed, so maybe it wasn’t that bad. And it was worth it, he thinks, to see the way her eyes had widened and her breath had caught, to see how flustered he could make her with just a treat a few words.

He hadn’t meant to deliver it, well, quite like that, but he’d seen her looking him up and down, eyes dark and wide and hungry, and he’d just … given in, just a little.

And now he has another image of her to add to his mental carousel of perversion: the swell of her breasts in that pretty little sports bra, the dark swoop of her eyelashes, the soft coconut-scented cloud of curls.

He looks down to his cock, so hard it’s purpling at the tip. He shrugs. He’s going to hell anyway. May as well enjoy it.

Samira manages another thirty seconds before she gives up and goes to her bedroom. She can hear the shower in Jack’s room running, figures it’s safe, and barely has the door flung closed behind before she’s dropping into bed, grabbing the vibrator from under the pillow.

She shuffles one leg out of her shorts, spreads her legs wide, and lets herself breathe, just for a moment, while she runs her fingers through her wet, wet folds. Jesus. She feels like a teenage boy; she’s never been this quick to react, never been so desperate. Touching herself is always a bedtime activity, part of her sleep hygiene more than anything else. She’s never masturbated in the afternoon. It feels ridiculous. It feels indulgent. It feels …

She brings the vibrator right to her clit, and closes her eyes.

Jack feels a million times better after his shower, strapping his non-workout leg back on and slipping on a pair of clean sweatpants. The low thrum of arousal from the dining table encounter is still simmering in his blood, but the furious jerk-off session in the shower took the edge off enough that he feels more capable of behaving like a normal human being.

He’s heading down the hallway, thinking about what to make them both for a late lunch/early dinner — he’s one thousand percent sure Samira did not remember to have lunch while he was asleep — when he notices the guest room door is slightly ajar — not fully closed, not wide open, just a little crack. The door’s always had trouble latching — one of the risks of a century-old house — especially when it’s closed quickly, and he debates for a second whether to pull it shut or leave it alone.

He’s just settled on ignoring it when his ears finally attune to the sounds from inside the room, and he freezes.

There’s breathing, heavy and loud, and the rustling of sheets, like someones shifting restlessly in the bed, and then, underneath it all, a low buzz, and — oh. Oh.

He feels frozen, not entirely sure what to do (that’s a lie; he knows he needs to leave), but then he hears, soft but unmistakable, a low, breathy, “Jack,” and then all rational thought leaves his brain and he opens the door.

Samira immediately jackknifes up in bed, chest heaving and legs snapping together, but he still gets a glimpse of dark curls, and a flash of bright purple vibrator in her fist.

“Jack!” she says, scrambling to sit up, eyes wild, “I —“

“I heard my name,” he says, voice shockingly even, and takes a step into the room. It’s like now, once all his restraint has well and truly fled, his baser instincts are taking over, and he has no capacity for hesitancy any more. He tilts his head, considering her. “Everything ok?”

There’s an incredulous pause, and then she grabs for the bedspread pulling it over her lap. Her cheeks are a dark, dark pink. “What the fuck.”

He steps a little more into the room, and she shuffles further back against the headboard. “You alright? Do you need help with something?”

“I —“ she clearly knows that he knows what she’s been up to, is clearly trying to figure out what angle he’s taking here. Unfortunately for her, he doesn’t know either. He’s just sort of winging it at this point. He figures if this goes spectacularly poorly he’ll just flee the country and fake his death. Trinity has a trust. She’ll be fine.

He keeps walking forward, until he’s right at the side of the bed. His erection is a steady, throbbing presence now, pushing up against the seam of his lounge pants. Her eyes are still wide, but they drop to the tent his cock is making, and he enjoys a stupid little thrill at the way her mouth drops open.

“You can say no,” he says, and really does mean it, tries to make clear how very much the ball is in her court, “but I’m happy to help. If you need it.”

There’s another pregnant pause while she considers him, eyes tracing from his damp curls down to his erection and back. He can practically hear the gears in her brain turning, can see all the different calculations she’s trying to make.

He smiles, and sits on the bed. She doesn’t move, just watches him. “I mean it,” he says, “I can help. It can be … our little secret. If you want.” He pauses, and even though part of him really, really doesn’t want too, adds, “A one-time thing.”

She nods at that and then pauses, considers him a moment longer. “Our little secret?”

He nods. “Just ours.”

The moment stretches and he finds himself holding his breath, waiting for her, desperately hoping.

Finally, she nods, just once. “Actually, Dr. Abbot, I really could use your help.”

It’s a stupid line, she knows it, but it has the desired effect. His nostrils flare, and he nods, once, in return, and then he’s flinging the bedspread off her lap and putting one huge hand high on her inner thigh, spreading one leg wide.

His eyes are on her face, searching and intense, until she lets her leg relax into his hold, and then his gaze is drawn to where she’s swollen and wet. He slides his hand up her thigh, searing hot, and she feels herself get wetter, hears her breathing quicken, as he gets closer and closer to where she wants it.

Bright afternoon sun is filtering in through the sheer curtains, casting everything in a warm, surreal glow. This doesn’t feel like the kind of thing that should be happening in the daytime. Well — it’s not the kind of thing that should be happening at all, but —

His hand is so close now; she can feel the heat from it, aches with wanting. She lets her other leg fall open, baring herself entirely, and he exhales sharply.

“Jesus,” he says, low and gruff, “look at you.”

His fingertips run over the curls above her clit, so light and easy that it’s almost ticklish, before he skates them down, down, down. He brushes her clit as he goes and she gasps, loud in the quiet room, and then he smiles, a crooked close-mouthed smile that looks pleased and satisfied.

He’s barely actually touched her yet, but the phantom almost-touch is somehow worse. She aches with it, wants so badly for him to just … palm her, fuck his fingers into her. But he’s still just exploring, featherlight, circling around her entrance, skating over her folds, until she’s panting, feeling boneless.

And then, like he knows exactly when the sensation’s about to tip over from pleasurably frustrating to just frustrating, he dips one finger steadily, inexorably into her.

She’s been trying to stay quiet — had felt, somehow, like she’d break the spell if she spoke, would wake up to find it had all been a dream — but it feels so fucking good that she can’t keep back a low groan as he fucks his finger into her once, and then again.

“Hm,” he says, like he’s considering her, giving her an inspection. It should be annoying and high-handed, and it sort of is, but also it’s stupidly hot.

He cocks his head, like she’s one of his students and he’s thinking about an answer she gave in class, and then, like he’s testing a theory, slips another one of his fat fucking fingers into her, and at the same time brings his thumb to her clit.

“Fuck,” she says, and tilts her head back, squeezing her eyes shut. Her hands are clutching at the sheets, mindless, restless. The vibrator is … somewhere.

“Yeah?” he says, and before she can answer, he says, low and satisfied, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

She was already close, before he’d barged in, and even though her arousal had flagged with the bone-chilling mortification of discovery, she’s instantly back on the precipice. She rocks her hips up, chasing sensation, until a large hand comes down on her lower stomach. Her eyes fly open.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” says Jack, eyes intent upon her face, “don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”

“Jack —“ she says, on a cut-off moan.

“I know,” he says, “I know you need it. It’s ok.”

“I —“

“Hush,” he says, firm but kind, “and let me take care of you.”

When her brain isn’t leaking out of her ears she’ll have to do some soul-searching about why she finds this kind patronizing control so dizzying in the bedroom. As it is, she’s losing her mind, desperate to come and just as desperate to stay in this buzzing, electric space, right before the drop.

But Jack is in charge here, not her, and even though she thinks she could stay on the edge for longer — almost wants to, really, doesn’t want to break the spell — he decides that he’d like her to come. And so, with another clever flick of his wrist, she does.

Jack is absolutely, 1000% going to hell. He knows this. He sort of knew it already, but the dark pleasure he’s taking in watching his daughter’s best friend fall apart on just two of his fingers is really cementing this.

Still. What a way to go.

She’s a sight as she comes: head thrown back, hands clutching restlessly at the sheets, long limbs everywhere. She kicks her feet reflexively.

“There we go,” he says, weirdly proud of her, “that’s it. Such a good job.” He’s never done this particular brand of dirty talk in bed, but he finds that he really does mean it. She’s such a hard worker, such a brilliant mind. She did wonderfully.

He draws his fingers out slowly, petting her folds gently as she comes down. Her eyes are still scrunched closed as she pants, so he indulges himself and brings his fingers up for a quick taste, and — “Jesus,” he says, involuntary.

She opens her eyes at that, and her gaze immediately falls to where he’s licking his fingers clean. “Oh —“ she says, and then falls silent, like she’s not sure what to make of that. Maybe she’s never had someone savor the way she tastes before. He can fix that.

“Here,” he says, bringing the finger to her lips, “taste.”

Her tongue darts out, butterfly light, to lick the taste of her off his fingers, keeping eye contact with him the whole time. Her eyes are so, so dark. God, he wants to fuck her so badly.

Still — it feels like a line, somehow. One they can’t cross. He should go, should really quit while he’s ahead here. He’s already going to have trouble talking to Trinity about this. He should —

She reaches up to put a hand on his face, tucking a damp curl behind his ear and then combing her fingers along his scalp. It feels … god, it feels good, all tingly and lovely. He closes his eyes, tries to repress a shudder.

“Your hair’s so soft,” she says, warm and a little scratchy.

“Mm,” he says. Her nails are just the right side of sharp.

“Jack,” she says, soft as anything. He opens his eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

She looks off to the side and then straightens a little, like she’s steeling herself. “I think we should have sex.”

That wakes him all the way up.

“What?”

She nods, resolute. “This is a one-time thing, right? Then I want to have sex.”

“I —“ he scrambles, suddenly panicky. “Sweetheart, that was sex.”

She wrinkles her nose. “You know what I mean. I want you to … I want you to fuck me.”

Jesus Christ. She says it with a touch of awkwardness, and a creeping suspicion crawls up his spine.

“Have you …” God, there’s really no way to ask this in a way that doesn’t embarrass her. “Have you … done this? Before?”

She rolls her eyes, defensive in the way generations of virgins have been before her. “Of course,” she says, too quickly. “It’s not a big deal.”

He ignores the way his erection perks up at the idea of her … Well. Anyway. He smiles. “Oh yeah? With who?”

She glares. “None of your business, thanks.”

“I don’t know, honey,” he says, putting a palm back on her leg, “I kind of want to know who my competition is, if we’re doing this.”

She’s clearly trying to look arch, aloof, but a dimple is popping in her cheek. “Why? Afraid you might not measure up?”

He rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to get a rise out of me. It’s not working.”

“Hm,” she says, dropping a pointed look to his erection. “Kind of seems like it is.”

He knows then that he’ll be fucking her. There’s no world in which he doesn’t fuck her. She’s so fucking … delightful. Smart, beautiful, lovely. And — look, she’s been friends with Trinity for nearly four years at this point, and he’s never met her before. And they’re all graduating in a few weeks. It’s not like they’re going to run into each other more than a few times. It’ll be fine.

Resolved, he slides his hand further up her thigh. “Alright. Yeah.”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “Please, contain your excitement.”

“Brat,” he says, delighted, and then it’s on.

Samira, technically, has had sex. She’s made out with plenty of people at various functions, even done some light groping. And then there’d been a guy the first week of sophomore year, at a house party some senior had thrown. She’d seen him in a couple of her classes, found him cute, and apparently he’d felt the same, because by the end of the night he’d crowded her onto the twin bed in his dorm room, palming heavily at her tits, and managed exactly half a condom-covered thrust into her before coming, collapsing on top of her and falling instantly asleep.

She’d waited for five humiliating minutes before accepting that nothing else was going to happen. Then she’d rolled out from under him, gotten her clothes back on, and never spoken to him again.

So she’s technically not a virgin. But Jack Abbot makes her feel like she is, like all of the awkward fumbles she’s suffered through before meant basically nothing. He’d already made her come on his fingers without breaking a sweat, and now he’s kneeling at her feet, holding her legs apart while he eats her out like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing.

When he’d first bent his head down she’d squirmed. “Wait,” she’d said, though she hadn’t been entirely sure why. It just had felt like … well people generally didn’t enjoy giving oral sex, right? Wasn’t that a thing?

He’d ignored her anyway, just cocked a grin at her and asked, calm as can be, “You ever done this before?”

“I —“ she’d said, trying think of something to say.

He’d taken her hesitation for the answer it was, and had looked absurdly pleased about it. “Well then,” he’d said, holding her legs open, “allow me.”

From the first lick of his tongue against her, she’d been lost.

Now she’s thrashing around on the bed, or at least trying too — he’s got one muscular arm over her hips, pinning her down — with one hand in those lovely soft curls, and is about three seconds away from an orgasm.

“Oh,” she says, because she can’t stop herself, “oh Jack, Jack, I’m — oh fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything, just hums encouragingly into her pussy and keeps doing exactly what he’s already doing.

It doesn’t take long after that. Between one breath and the next she tips over the edge with a sharp little noise, canting her hips up into his mouth as much as she can.

He gives her a few last little kitten licks and then pops his head up. His stubble is glistening with her wetness, and his face is flushed. He looks … god.

She’s never felt more desperate after an orgasm before, let alone two, but Jack Abbot is teaching her all sorts of new things today, because she’s aching, desperate to have something inside her. She tells him as much.

He grins. “Bossy thing.”

But before she can say anything in response, he’s manhandling her and flipping them around. All she can manage is a delighted shriek before he’s got her straddling his lap.

He plucks at her sports bra. “Let’s take this off, sweetheart.”

She lets herself feel self-conscious for just a second before she strips it off in one fell swoop, and the way his mouth drops open and his hands come up to her breasts is extremely encouraging.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, reverently thumbing a nipple, “look at you.”

She grabs handfuls of his shirt. “You too, come on, come on, please.”

He yanks his off in that stupid-hot way that boys always do, and then she’s distracted by the swell of muscle. She can’t stop running her hands over him, his arms and his pecs and his stomach. She gives his nipples an experimental pluck and he groans, sharp and pleased, before grabbing at her hands.

“Stop that.”

“Why? You liked it.”

“Exactly,” he says, raising her hips up and shimmying out of his pants, “I’m trying not to come in thirty seconds, thanks.”

“Would last longer than the other time,” she says without thinking.

He pauses, parsing her words. “Are you serious?” He looks genuinely a bit angry. It makes her giggle.

She drops her head to his shoulder. “He didn’t even get all the way in.”

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and pulls her back up by her hair.

He holds her above him, just for a moment, looking at the planes of her face, taking her in. Then he nods. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s give you a better first time.”

She wants to feel annoyed by all of it, but instead she feels … oddly cared for. And then he’s gotten his pants off all the way, and all she feels is hungry.

She’s seen an erect penis exactly once before, and it hadn’t really been anything to write home about. Jack, though —

“There’s no way that’ll fit,” she says, before she can think better of it, and tries not to wince at how cliched that sounds.

He just laughs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’ll fit sweetheart, I promise. We’ll go slow.”

He reaches for her, about to haul her back up into his lap, when he freezes. “Shit.”

“What?” she says, feeling a little dazed by the manhandling. She really, really wants that inside her.

“Condom,” he says, turning as if he’s about to get up.

“No!” She’s not sure where it comes from, only that the idea of interrupting this moment seems like the worst thing on earth.

He gapes at her, then shakes his head. “Come on, Samira. You know better. I’m not going to —“

“I’m on the pill,” she says, quick as she can. He stares at her. “I swear I am. I’m not — I just —I just want to feel you.”

He’s still very clearly hesitating, so she plays dirty. She makes her eyes extra wide, pouts just a little, and says, very politely, “Please?”

That does it. She can see in the way he sags that he’s given in, even before he laughs a little ruefully.

“Well,” he says, and then he’s grabbing her hips, hauling her up and into place, “if the lady insists.”

The first press of his bare cock into her is almost his undoing. The only thing keeping him together is the stubborn knowledge that he absolutely cannot last less time than whatever frat boy idiot she’d attempted this with before. He’d never forgive himself.

It doesn’t help that she’s making unbelievable noises as she works herself down, little huffs and pants and mewls. Her eyes are scrunched shut.

He palms at one of her lovely small breasts, plucking at a nipple, giving her something to distract her. “That’s it,” he says, “you’ve got this. Come on.”

“I know I do,” she says, fierce and so, so beautiful, and he smiles.

“That’s my girl,” he says, unthinking, and winces a little internally, because he’s definitely said something similar to Trinity at some point in her life, but here, in this warm afternoon glow, it takes on an entirely different meaning.

He strokes her hair, gentling her, and lets her work herself down. It feels — god, she’s so tight. And wet, fuck she’s wet. He tells her so.

“Fuck,” is all she says in reply, and leans forward to bite the swell of his shoulder as she finally, finally gets him all the way in. “Fuck,” she says again, “it hurts.”

Jack already knew he was destined for hell, but the way that makes him buck up into her, just a bit, seals the deal.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, petting her sides as she pants into his shoulder, “sorry, sorry, you’re ok, take your time, breath through it.”

She does for one breath, and then another, and then, because of course she’s a hardworking overachiever in everything she attempts, she lifts herself off and drops back down into his lap.

“Jesus fuck,” he grinds out, grabbing at her hips to keep her in place. “Warn a guy.”

She rolls her eyes and tries to push up again.

“No, honey,” he says, coaxing, “come on, I’ll hurt you.”

Her brow furrows. “But I want —“

“I know,” he says, “I know, but — let me —“

He slips his thumb between her lips and she sucks it in, eager even with a frown still on her face. He slips it out and then brings it straight to her clit, just as he bends down and takes a lovely brown nipple into his mouth.

She throws her head back on a soft ah, and he gives her nipple a little bite before pulling off. He keeps his thumb right on her clit as he pulls her into a slow grind.

“Like that, honey, that’s it. Take what you want first, go on.”

She’s panting now, a beautiful pink flush high in her cheekbones as she does what he says, rocking her hips back and forth. It feels incredible. It feels like he’s going to die.

Still. He has to get her there first. His pride demands it, if nothing else, but he also knows that he’s big, that he’s a little too much sometimes without an orgasm or two to ease the way, and that’s with people who’ve done this before. With Samira, he wants to fuck her, but he wants, more than anything else, to be good for her.

She drops her head onto his shoulder again and he can feel — “Fuck, you’re close, aren’t you — yeah, yeah, I can feel it, come on, come on —“

“Fuck,” she says against his skin, and then she’s coming, clenching his cock in a vice as she shakes apart in his lap.

“That’s it, honey,” he says into her hair, “that’s it, so good, you’re so good, good girl.”

She’s silent against him for a moment, and just as he’s about to start worrying that maybe this has all been too much, maybe he’s taken it too far, she lifts her head up and he stops thinking at all. Her eyes are shiny with tears and she’s grinning, broad and bright and so lovely it makes his heart ache. He brings a thumb up to catch a tear escaping from the corner of her eye and she turns and bites him.

“Hey!”

She squirms on his lap, making him groan, and bites his thumb again. “I want you to fuck me now. Please.”

“I am fucking you.”

She rolls her eyes and tries to rise up. He clamps his hands down on her hips in an act of pure self-preservation and she grins. “I’m serious, Jack. I want to be fucked.”

He must still be frowning a little at her because she smoothes a hand over his cheek. “You’ve been so good for me. I want you to let go.” She pauses, and then goes in for the kill. “Please?”

He can’t stop a charmed laugh from bubbling up. “God, you’re spoiled,” he says, and then lifts her off him entirely.

“Hey —“

Her protests are cut off when he sits up and flips her over to her stomach, and then yanks on her hips until she’s on elbows and knees beneath him. “You want to be fucked, sweetheart?” he says as he lines his cock up. “Then hold on.” And then he thrusts inside.

In the remaining part of her brain that isn’t completely liquified from three orgasms, Samira realizes that she may have slightly miscalculated. She’d been pushing him, teasing because he’d been so clearly consumed by making sure she chased her own pleasure. He’d been entirely devoted to her orgasms. And it’s not like he’s not considerate now — his hands are firm but so gentle, he’s made sure she’s not smothered in a pillow — but whatever veneer of civility was holding him together is now completely gone.

He is fucking her. She understands now what it means to get absolutely railed. It feels incredible. She feels completely surrounded by him, can feel every inch of his frankly ridiculous cock inside of her, and her last orgasm had finally loosened her muscles enough that the push of it is a good ache, not bad.

He’s talking, too, all manner of incredibly filthy things she didn’t think people actually said — definitely not things she’d ever thought she’d enjoy. But here she is, absolutely drenching a man’s cock as he tells her what a good girl she is, how good she feels, how proud he is of her for taking him so well. She can’t really form words, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. She tried to say something when he first started, and he’d run a hand down her back and said, “Shh, honey, it’s ok, you’re done talking now, ok? Just let me take care of you.”

And so she had. And so he was. She’s not sure she has another orgasm in her, but she can feel the beginnings of one. He’s hitting a place inside her that makes her light up all over. Her nipples are rubbing against the sheets with every thrust, making her shiver.

“God,” he’s saying behind her, “god, look at you, fuck you’re incredible. So smart, so gorgeous, such a good girl.”

It’s all curling in her belly, low and hot and wonderful, and she thinks she might actually, unbelievably, come again. It’s so close, just slightly out of reach, and she thinks she just needs something, but she’s not sure what, just —

The slap comes out of nowhere, hard and sharp against the meat of her ass, and that’s it. She’s done for. That sharp rush of pain is all it takes for her to go rushing over the edge, and she feels her knees give out.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jack swears behind her, and then there’s a hot warmth flooding her as he comes, another wonderfully sharp pain as he bites her shoulder.

Things go a bit fuzzy after that. He gets her turned onto her back, then disappears for a moment and comes back with a warm cloth and a glass of water, which she drinks as he cleans her up. There’s a moment where he clearly hesitates once he’s finished, but she decides that he’d make a good pillow so he very obediently crawls into bed with her and lets her curl up against him. At some point Cleo comes in and curls up at their feet.

She’s just about to doze off when a thought suddenly occurs to her. Her brain’s too soupy to articulate it, but she paws at his face a little and hopes he gets it. It takes him a second — he looks blissed out, too — but then it must click.

“Oh, my apologies,” he says, and bends down to give her a kiss.

Jack always loves the beginning of the semester. Some holdover from when he himself was a student — everything’s brimming with possibility, the students are a mix of nervous and hopeful, and neither he nor his TAs have anything to grade yet.

This semester feels particularly exciting, and it’s not because it’s his last one before a glorious year-long sabbatical, or because his NIH grant payout hit, or because Evil Patricia finally moved offices onto another floor and so he doesn’t have to smell her weird fermented fish lunches anymore. In fact, he’d felt entirely ordinary about this semester right up until he’d looked through the class roster for the first time this morning, and seen her name.

He hasn’t seen her since that glorious week last year, when they’d fucked for three straight days on every available surface in his house in between bouts of editing and writing and takeout. The break had ended, he’d driven her back to campus, and that had been that. He hadn’t even seen her at graduation; she’d been whisked away by her mother for something or other.

She’d clearly never told Trinity because Trinity had never attempted to murder him. And he felt bad about lying to his own flesh-and-blood daughter, although it was more a lie of omission than anything else — as far as Trinity knew, he’d come back from Belgium a little earlier, had let Samira stay to finish her thesis, and that had been that.

He tried very hard not to ask Trinity about Samira more than he asked her about any of her other friends, which was not very much, but he did gather over the summer that Samira’d accepted a full ride to the University of Pittsburgh medical school, and he’d felt such a strange combination of elation and arousal and terror at the idea that she would, at some point, be his student that he’d had to lie down on the floor about it for a while.

And now, at last. It’s here.

He opens the lecture hall door to find it already full, and as he gets his things sorted at the lectern he lets his eyes search the room frantically. His heart sinks a little when he realizes she’s not there — maybe she’d realized who her professor would be and asked to switch to Evil Patricia’s section, or maybe —

Just then, the door at the top of the hall opens, and there she is, coming down the stairs in a cloud of curls, looking flustered and nervous and so, so beautiful.

She doesn’t look at him until she’s fully settled in a seat right near the front, and then the smile that she turns on him takes his breath away. He knows the whole fucking class can see him, doesn’t want to do anything untoward, but can’t himself from throwing her a soft wink before adjusting his papers, and addressing the room.

“I’m Dr. Jack Abbot,” he says, the same way he does every year — though the thrumming current of excitement underneath is new. “Welcome to class.”