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Samira had been whining at Jack all day. It started that morning when she couldn’t find her favorite cream sweater and decided this was, somehow, his fault. Then it was the tea– too hot, not strong enough, too much sugar– though she’d watched him make it exactly the way she’d asked and always had liked it. After that came the traffic on the way to the grocery store (“If you had left earlier—”), the lunch order (“Why would you let me get fries if you knew I’d regret it?”), and the dramatic sighing every time he so much as glanced at his phone instead of at her.
By mid-afternoon, she had progressed from sighing to full commentary.
“Jack.”
“Jack.”
“Jack, are you even listening?”
He had been listening the whole day— patiently, indulgently, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was watching something mildly entertaining instead of being accused of ruining her life by existing incorrectly. The fact that he wasn’t annoyed by her was exactly the problem. She doesn’t want patience, she wants friction.
Now, hours later, she’s stretched across the couch, chin in her palm, staring at him like he personally invented boredom. Her legs are tucked beneath her, deep brown skin glowing warm against the pale cushions. She’s wearing those frilly white ankle socks with the blue flowers on them that she insists are comfortable, and an oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder when she shifts. The frayed hem barely covers the tiny pair of shorts underneath, and every time she kicks her feet in frustration, the fabric rides up. She knows that. She keeps doing it anyway.
“I’m just saying,” she goes on, voice pitched somewhere between tragic and accusing, “you could at least pretend to care that I’m suffering.”
Jack looks up from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded. He takes her in slowly, eyes dragging over the slouch, the pout, the deliberate way she angles herself toward him like she doesn’t care whether he’s looking or not.
“Suffering,” he repeats mildly. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Yes!”
“You’ve had a perfectly good day, baby.”
Samira narrows her eyes. “You’re dismissing my lived experience.”
He huffs a laugh under his breath. “Your lived experience is that you didn’t get enough attention for ten consecutive minutes.”
"That's not true,” she shoots back instantly, pouting. “It was at least thirty.”
She hears herself and doesn’t correct it. If anything, she leans into it, letting her heel knock against the couch cushion in a small, restless rhythm. He’s still too calm, too steady. She wants him to do something with all that composure, if she can’t break it.
Jack pushes off the counter in a slow, unhurried way that makes her stomach dip before she can help it. He stops in front of the couch and looks down at her.
“You done?” he asks.
She blinks up at him, lashes lowering and lifting again like she’s thinking very hard.
“Done with what?” she asks, voice soft.
“With this.” His hand makes a vague circle in the air, encompassing the sighing, the pouting, the endless commentary. “You been running that mouth since eight this mornin’.”
Her lips part, ready with another complaint, but he tilts his head at her and something about the look in his eyes makes the words stall in her mouth.
“You’re real needy today,” he says lightly.
“I am not!”
“No?” His voice dips just enough to change the temperature. “So you don’t want my attention?”
Her fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt before she smooths it out. She doesn’t answer right away. The space stretches and he waits her out like he has all day.
He reaches down and takes her chin between his thumb and index fingers, not rough but firm enough that she has to meet his eyes. “Use your words,” he murmurs. “What d’you want, sweetheart?”
He’s giving her a chance to ask properly. To be the good girl he knows she can be. Her throat bobs, choosing between her pride and her desire. Every time he calls her ‘sweetheart’, she feels the pull of it low in her stomach and hates that he can read her so easily. Asking feels like losing, like admitting the whole day has been a performance.
She pulls her face from his grip, turning her nose up in the air with a small huff. “I didn’t say I wanted anything,” she mumbles.
“Mm.” His mouth curves slightly. “That’s what I thought.”
He sits on the couch, legs spread just enough to make a space for her.
“C’mere.”
Samira, much to her own chagrin, folds instantly. It’s not a command so much as an inevitability. She rolls her eyes like she’s humoring him, but she’s already shifting upright, moving closer. She climbs into his lap in one smooth motion, knees bracketing his thighs, hands settling on his shoulders like she belongs there.
Relief hums through her before she can disguise it. There. Finally, attention.
He exhales like this is a burden he’s graciously agreed to carry and smooths her hair back from her face, thumb lingering at her temple. “Poor baby,” he says softly, sympathy exaggerated to the point of cruelty. “So neglected by me.”
She preens under it despite herself. “I have been,” she insists, though her voice has already softened a little. She tips her chin up, inviting more.
“Yeah?” His thumb traces along her jaw, light and deliberate. “Nobody payin’ attention to you?”
She shakes her head, lip pushing out again, but this time it isn't entirely an act. His hands settle at her waist, warm and certain, guiding her just enough that she feels the direction of it without being forced. The steadiness of him sinks into her bones.
“That must be real hard,” he says solemnly. He adjusts her slightly in his lap, guiding her hips with easy authority. His hands are so warm, steady grounding. But he leans closer to her, voice a little gruff.
“All that whining,” he murmurs. “All day, baby, just whining at me. And you say you don’t want anything?”
She shivers a little. “ I wasn’t whining.” She can hear how much conviction it lacks.
“Sure you weren’t.”
His hands tighten just slightly at her waist, not enough to restrain her. She shifts instinctively, seeking more contact, and he lets her, lets her think she’s setting the pace. His expression stays easy, almost lazy, but there’s something deliberate in the way he studies her mouth when she starts to argue again.
“Can’t use your words and really tell me what you want, just gotta whine at me all day.” He frowns at her. “You really do like hearin’ yourself,” he says, thumb brushing lightly over her lower lip to quiet the next protest before it can fully form. “Been makin’ noise at me all day.”
She inhales to respond— of course she does— but his hand lingers there, and the words stall behind his fingers. For a split second, she considers biting at him just to prove she can. He smiles when he sees the thought cross her face.
“Tell you what,” he says, voice easy, coaxing now instead of teasing. “Since you can’t seem to keep that mouth still, let’s give it somethin’ useful to do.”
She feels the shift but can’t quite name it. He sounds amused, indulgent, even. He’s about to give her the attention she’s been angling for all day. She nods before she’s fully thought it through, already leaning into his touch, already certain she’s won.
Jack’s fingers curl into her hair, not pulling yet, just guiding her down onto her knees in front of him. Samira eagerly starts to unbutton his jeans, shoving them down over his muscular thighs. He’s already half-hard, cock forming a tent in his boxers. Samira can feel her mouth watering with the need for him in her mouth.
“Open,” he murmurs, and the command is soft enough that it takes her a second to realize— against her own will— she’s already obeying, lips parting before she can think to protest. The first brush of the head of his cock against her tongue sends a shiver through her. It’s warm, heavy, the salt-bitter taste of him already familiar.
She whines low in her throat, but he tsks, thumb pressing against the hinge of her jaw. “Uh-uh. None of that.” His voice is dark like molasses. “You wanted attention, baby. Here it is.”
She tries to glare up at him and refuse, but the effect is ruined by the way her lashes flutter when he rocks his hips forward, just enough to slide deeper into her mouth. His grip tightens slightly, keeping her in place as he watches her struggle to adjust.
“Look at you,” he muses, dragging his free hand down the side of her throat, fingertips tracing the way her throat muscles jump as she finally swallows him down. “Pretty girl, all worked up just ‘cause I finally let you have what you wanted.” He chuckles when she moans around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.
“Yeah, you like that, don’t you? My needy girl.”
The heat between her legs is unbearable now, slickness soaking through her thin shorts, and she squirms in between his legs, desperate for any type of friction. Jack notices, of course— he always does— and his grin turns sharp.
“Aw, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dripping with false sympathy. “All that whining got you all wet?” He shifts his grip, tilting her head back and pulling her mouth off of him so she has to meet his eyes. “Let’s see how bad it is.”
Before she can react, his fingers hook into the waistband of her shorts, yanking them down just enough to expose the soaked fabric beneath. He tuts, shaking his head. “Pathetic little girl.”
The words send a jolt through her, equal parts humiliation and arousal. She tries to speak, but he presses his cock back into her mouth, shushing her. “No, baby. You’ve done enough talking for today.” Samira keeps sucking him, but she needs more. She lifts her head up to ask for something, anything, against her cunt, but he frowns at her before she can even get a word out.
“Honey, I thought you were learning your lesson so well. You don’t get to talk right now.” With practiced ease, he tugs her shorts and panties down her thighs, using the damp fabric to wipe her own drool from her chin before balling it up. “Gonna put this to better use,” he says, and her eyes widen when he presses the wadded cotton’s soaked crotch against her tongue.
She gags instinctively, but he just clucks his tongue. “Keep it there. Unless you’d rather I find something bigger to fill that mouth with?” He takes two of his fingers, pushing them deeper into her mouth and she closes her eyes at the humiliation. Her own taste mixes with his on her tongue, her slick soaking into the fabric he’s stuffed against her palate. She’s panting through her nose when he pulls his fingers out of her mouth and smears the spit down her chin.
“There,” he murmurs, adjusting the makeshift gag so it sits snug between her teeth. “Now you can’t whine at me.” His thumb traces the outline of her bottom lip, swollen from sucking him. “Unless you want me to take it out?”
She attempts to nod her head, but he grabs her hair at the scalp and forces a shake out of her. The panties press deeper against her tongue, the damp fabric heavy with her own scent, and she can’t help the whimper that escapes around the makeshift gag. His fingers tighten in her hair, tilting her head back further, forcing her to look up at him through wet lashes. The expression on his face is almost the same as when he’s analyzing a patient— detached amusement, the kind that makes her squirm more than any roughness ever could.
“No?” he murmurs, thumb tracing the edge of her lower lip where it’s stretched around the fabric. “You sure, baby? ‘Cause I could take it out, let you tell me exactly how much you hate this.”
She shakes her head again, quicker this time and by her own will, and he rewards her with a slow stroke of his cock against her cheek, smearing precome across her skin. “Good girl,” he sighs, like it’s a concession. “Knew you could be sweet when you tried.”
The praise coils hot in her stomach, and when he cups his hand against her cheek, she leans into his touch instinctively, chasing the warmth of his palm. Her breath comes faster through her nose, the damp fabric of her own panties pressing deeper against her tongue with every exhale. Jack watches her with that infuriatingly patient expression, like he’s cataloging every twitch of her lashes, every minute tremor in her thighs where they bracket his feet.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb along her cheekbone. “All that fuss just to end up right here.” His fingers tighten slightly in her hair, not pulling, just reminding her of their presence. “You gonna be good for me now?”
Jack exhales through his nose, fingers flexing once against the curve of her scalp before releasing her entirely. With deliberate slowness, he tugs his jeans back up over his hips, the denim whispering against his thighs as he fastens the button. The sound of the zipper is obscenely loud in the quiet room. Samira whimpers around the sodden fabric in her mouth, knees aching against the hardwood floor, but he barely glances at her as he reaches for the medical journal abandoned on the coffee table earlier.
“Sit,” he says, almost as if he was talking to a naughty child. He flips the journal open to a dog-eared page like she isn’t trembling at his feet, with her thighs glistening.
She hesitates— just long enough for his eyebrow to lift at her— before shuffling closer on her knees until she can slump against his shin. The position forces her to crane her neck to see his face, and the humiliation burns hotter when he doesn’t even look down. Her fingers twist in the hem of her shirt, the fabric barely covering the tops of her thighs now that her shorts are tangled around one ankle. The frilly socks made her feel so cute earlier, but now she’s completely embarrassed with the feeling of the lace tickling her calves as she shifts restlessly.
Jack turns a page. The quiet rustle of paper is loud in the silence.
She nudges his knee with her forehead, a wordless plea. When he doesn’t react, she does it harder, punctuating with a muffled whine around the cotton wad. His thumb smears her saliva where it’s dripping down her chin, but his gaze never wavers from the article on new laparoscopic techniques.
“Problem, baby?” he asks mildly.
Samira glares up at him, cheeks flushed. She makes a show of adjusting herself and the drool dripping out of her mouth through the lacy edges of her panties, then gestures emphatically at her bare thighs and dripping cunt. Her jaw aches from the gag.
“Uh-huh.” He flips another page. “And?”
Her nostrils flare. She flops her chin back onto his thigh, looking up at him with the kind of look that insists she’s above this, even as she drips onto his floor. Jack finally glances down, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Christ, sweetheart. You ever heard of patience?” She, of course, shakes her head with a lot of attitude as her socked feet kick against the floorboards. The panties shift in her mouth again and she gags.
Samira loses track of how long she kneels there— thirty minutes? An hour?— her thighs growing tacky with her own slickness, her knees aching against the hardwood floor. A small puddle forms beneath her, glistening in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. She can feel the drool drying on her chin. She shifts restlessly, her socked feet flexing against the floorboards, but Jack remains engrossed in his journal, occasionally humming at some medical insight as if she isn’t dripping onto his floor.
A thread of drool escapes the sodden gag, trailing down her chin to join the mess between her legs. She whines— high and thin through her nose— but he merely turns another page, his thumb idly stroking the paper’s edge. The deliberate indifference he’s treating her with burns hotter than any sort of roughness. She rocks forward onto her hands, her shirt riding up to expose the full curve of her ass, and presses her forehead against his knee in silent supplication.
Jack sighs, as if her desperation is a minor inconvenience. “Tired already?” he murmurs, still not looking up. His free hand drifts down to pet her hair absently, bringing a moan out of her as his fingers comb through the strands with the same casual affection one might give a restless cat.
She shakes her head, her nose bumping against his thigh in protest. The movement dislodges more spit from the gag, and she feels it drip onto his sock. A thrill of mortification curls in her gut— she’s ruining him, marking him and his house, and he still won’t fucking look at her.
The journal snaps shut abruptly. Samira jerks back instinctively, but his hand tightens in her hair, holding her in place. His grip isn’t cruel, just inexorable, as he drags her up by the roots until she’s straddling his lap, her damp thighs bracketing his hips. The sudden proximity makes her dizzy; she can smell her own arousal on him, mingling with the starch of his shirt. Despite his indifference, he’s hard underneath her.
“Look at this,” he whispers, spreading his fingers over the drool-soaked neckline of her shirt where it clings to her breasts. His hand travels as his thumb dips beneath the hem to trace the crease of her thigh, collecting slickness with clinical precision. “Ruined my damn floor.” He holds up his glistening fingers up between them, letting her see the evidence before wiping it across her cheek. The slow, deliberate smear makes her shudder. “Messy girl.”
She tries to nod, to plead with her eyes, but his breath ghosts over her cheeks, warm and steady, completely distracting her. "You wanna come?" he asks, so softly she feels it in her ribs. She whimpers, pressing closer, but he leans back just enough to keep her at bay. "Ah-ah. Answer me nicely."
Samira hesitates—just long enough for his grip to tighten warningly—before nodding frantically. The panties shift in her mouth, another trickle of spit escaping. He watches it with dark amusement.
"Gonna let me take care of you?" His thumb traces the hinge of her jaw where it strains around the gag. She nods again, desperate now, hips canting forward in silent supplication. He exhales, long-suffering. "Alright, baby. Since you asked so nice."
The couch springs creak under her weight as Jack manhandles her forward, her knees sinking into the cushions while her upper body drapes over the armrest. The panties stuffed in her mouth press deeper against her palate when he fists the damp fabric and yanks, arching her spine into a perfect curve. Her muffled gasp dissolves into a moan as she feels the blunt head of him nudging against her entrance, already slick enough that he slides in with obscene ease.
“Fuck,” he grits out, fingers tightening on her gag as he bottoms out, his hips flush against the back of her thighs. “Look at that. Knew you were made for this.” His thumb traces the stretched rim of her where she takes him, collecting slickness to smear across her lower back. “Dumb little thing. Needed me to show you, huh? How to be a good girl?”
Samira nods frantically, the motion making her gag reflexively around the soaked cotton. The stretch burns just enough to be perfect, her cunt clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper, after being neglected for so long. Jack exhales sharply through his nose and withdraws almost completely before slamming back in, the force of it knocking a ragged sound from her throat.
“Messy girl,” he chides, wrapping the gag around his fist like a leash to tug her head back further. His free hand splays across the small of her back, pinning her in place as he sets a punishing rhythm. “All that noise just to end up stuffed full of me. Coulda saved us both the trouble if you’d just asked nice, baby.”
She tries to whine in protest, but the sound dissolves into a muffled keen when he angles his hips just right, the head of his cock grinding against that sweet spot inside of her. Her thighs tremble, toes curling against the couch cushions as pleasure crackles up her spine.
“Pretty thing,” he teases, dragging his palm up her spin to fist her shirt collar. “Look at you— so fucked out you can’t even remember how to whine.” He yanks the fabric taut against her throat, not enough to cut off air, just enough to remind her who’s in control. “Bet you don’t even know what day it is, do you?”
Samira shakes her head blindly, her vision tunneling as he snaps his hips forward again. The armrest digs into her ribs, the pressure sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming fullness between her legs. She’s so close she can taste it, the tension coiling tighter with every thrust.
Jack notices, of course. He always does. He moves his hand from her shirt to his hair, stroking her scalp, the sudden tenderness incongruous with the brutal pace he’s setting. “There you go,” he croons, voice gone dark with approval. “Good girl. Taking it so good.”
She keens around the panty gag, her thighs trembling violently. He chuckles— low and knowing— and slows his thrust to long, deep roles that make her toes curl. “Not yet,” he chides, leaning down to nip at her earlobe. “Gotta learn your lesson first.” His fingers trail down to trace her swollen clit between her legs, feather-light. “Poor baby. So desperate for me to fix you.”
The sob that escapes her is muffled by the fabric, but he hears it anyway. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he apologizes, pressing a kiss to the hinge of her jaw. “You needed this, didn’t you? Needed me to put you in your place.” His thumb circles her clit with torturous precision. “Couldn’t just ask like a good girl. Had to make a scene, be a little brat all day.”
She nods frantically, her hips stuttering against his hand. The panties in her mouth are soaked through with spit now, the cotton heavy against her tongue. He pulls them tighter, using them like reins to tilt her head back further. “Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his free hand down her throat to cup her breast. “Dumb little thing. Made for this, you take it so good.”
The orgasm hits her like a train, sudden and all-consuming. Her vision whites out as her body locks around him, her cunt pulsing in rhythmic spasms. Jack groans, his hips stuttering as he fucks her through it, his grip on her breast turning punishing. “That’s it,” he coos. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Jack doesn’t stop when she goes limp beneath him, her body slack and trembling from the aftershocks. If anything, he drives into her harder, his grip moving to her shoulder and tightening just enough to keep her arched back against his chest as her whimpers dissolve into breathless, muffled moans. Her cunt flutters around him in weak, involuntary pulses, oversensitive but still clinging to him like she’s trying to milk every last drop.
“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of her ear as his hips snap forward with deliberate precision. “My sweet girl, takin’ me so good.” His free hand slides down her stomach, fingers splaying possessively over her quivering abdomen. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Just like you need.”
Samira’s eyelids flutter, her vision blurring as another weak tremor ripples through her. The panties in her mouth are soaked through, the fabric heavy with spit and drool, and she can’t even muster the energy to whine when he uses them to tug her head back further, exposing the long line of her throat. Jack groans, his rhythm stuttering as he feels her clench around him one last time, her body responding instinctively even as her mind floats somewhere hazy and distant.
“That’s it,” he grits out, hips jerking forward as he spills into her, his cock pulsing deep against her warmth. His breath comes ragged against her neck, his fingers flexing against her stomach as he rides out his own climax. “Good girl, my perfect little thing.”
She sags against him, boneless and pliant, her thighs trembling where they bracket his hips. Jack exhales sharply through his nose, his grip loosening just enough to stroke her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead. “Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “So pretty like this.”
With careful fingers, he hooks the sodden panties still stuffed in her mouth, pulling them free with a wet sound that makes her flush. Samira gasps as the fabric slides past her lips, her jaw aching from being stretched around it for so long. Jack holds the ruined cotton up between them, shaking his head with mock disapproval. “Christ, baby. Made a damn mess of yourself.”
Samira tries to speak, but all that comes out is a hoarse, broken sound, her throat dry from breathing through her nose for so long. Jack chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple before gathering her limp body into his arms, lifting her with effortless strength. Her head lolls against his shoulder, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, but he adjusts his grip effortlessly, cradling her close as he carries her toward the bathroom.
“Gonna get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, nudging the bathroom door open with his hip. The tiles are cool beneath his bare feet, the air thick with steam as he turns the faucet on one-handed, testing the water temperature with his free palm. Samira blinks up at him blearily, her lashes sticking together with dried tears, but he just presses another kiss to her forehead before lowering her gently into the tub.
The water is warm, almost too hot, but she sinks into it gratefully, her sore muscles relaxing instantly. Jack kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before reaching for the washcloth. He dips it into the water, wringing it out with practiced efficiency before dragging the damp fabric down her neck, wiping away the sticky trails of spit and sweat.
“There you go,” he murmurs, tilting her chin up to clean beneath it. His touch is gentle now– almost reverent— as he traces the swollen curve of her bottom lip where the gag had pressed. “Pretty girl. Took me so well.” The praise sinks into her bones, warm and thick like honey, and she leans into his touch instinctively, her eyelids fluttering shut.
He washes her with deliberate care, his fingers massaging the tension from her shoulders before moving lower, his hands lingering on the marks he’d left on her hips. The water laps at her thighs, turning cloudy with the remnants of their activities, but he doesn’t rush. He keeps his touch slow and thorough as he cleans between her legs with clinical detachment that somehow feels more intimate than anything else.
Samira shivers when he cups water in his palms to rinse her stomach, the liquid trickling down her skin in rivulets. Jack watches the droplets cling to her collarbones before leaning down to press his lips to them, his breath warm against her damp skin. “Sweet, smart girl,” he murmurs against her pulse point, his voice rough with lingering satisfaction. “Did so good for me.”
She hums, too boneless to form words, her fingers curling weakly against the edge of the tub. He chuckles at her exhaustion, smoothing a hand down her spine before reaching for the shampoo. The scent of rosewater and oud fills the air as he works the lather into her hair, his fingers kneading her scalp with practiced precision. Samira groans, her head lolling forward, and he catches her chin with his free hand, steadying her like it’s his job.
“None of that,” he chides softly, tilting her head back to rinse the suds away. His palm shields her eyes from the water, his touch tender. “Can’t have you drowning on me, baby. Not after all that effort keeping you in one piece, sweetheart.”
She whines— weak and breathless— but he silences her with a kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering just long enough to make her heart stutter. The water drains with a quiet gurgle as he lifts her from the tub, wrapping her in a towel warmed by the radiator. She burrows into the fabric instinctively, her nose pressed against his chest as he carries her back to the bedroom, her damp hair leaving dark streaks on his shirt.
Jack lays her down on the mattress with deliberate care, his hands lingering on her waist as he tucks the comforter around her shoulders. Samira blinks up at him blearily, her lashes sticking together with exhaustion, but he just brushes a thumb over her cheekbone, his expression completely adoring in the dim light.
“I’ll be right back, sweet girl, just gonna get you some water and ibuprofen.” he says, kindly. “I love you, I promise I’m coming right back.” Samira whines quietly, eyes closing.
He comes back, just as promised. Samira doesn’t open her eyes when she hears his footsteps, but she shifts toward the sound automatically, burrowing deeper into the blankets like she’s tracking him by instinct alone. Jack sets the glass of water and the pills on the nightstand, then sits on the edge of the bed and studies her for a long moment. The bratty sharpness is gone, just soft, loose-limbed exhaustion left.
He brushes her hair back from her temple. “Hey,” he says, voice low and steady. “Up for just a second.”
Her lashes flutter. She makes a small sound— not a whine, not really. Just a tired acknowledgement. He slides an arm behind her shoulders and lifts her carefully, bracing her against his chest so she doesn’t have to hold herself upright. The towel is gone; she’s warm from the bath, skin faintly pink and clean.
“Water first,” he says gently, tipping the glass toward her lips. She obeys without thinking, swallowing in small, obedient sips. A little dribbles down her chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, the motion automatic. “Good girl.”
She takes the pills when he presses them to her mouth, not arguing or negotiating. When she’s done, he lowers her back against the pillows and climbs in beside her, pulling the comforter up to her chin. She turns immediately, pressing her face into his sternum, arms sliding around his waist like she’s anchoring herself. Her breathing is still uneven, little aftershocks trembling through her every few seconds.
He strokes his hand down her spine in slow, repetitive passes. “You with me?” he asks quietly. She nods against his chest, she can hear the underlying anxiety in his voice. He exhales through his nose, satisfied. His hand resumes its path, thumb rubbing small circles at the base of her back.
“You did real good,” he says after a minute. “Knew you would.”
She shifts, tilting her head so she can look up at him. Her eyes are heavy, glassy from exhaustion, but clearer than before. “You were mean,” she murmurs, an accusation dulled by affection.
He was. “Mm. I was.” He pauses. “You needed it.”
She considers that. No reflexive contradiction or protest now, just a small and thoughtful wrinkle between her brows. “...Yeah,” she admits eventually. “I really liked it.”
His mouth curves faintly, pleased rather than triumphant. He smooths his thumb over that wrinkle on her face until it disappears. “All that noise today,” he continues, voice low and even, “you weren’t mad about tea. Or traffic.” She makes a faint huff of agreement.
“You wanted to see if I’d still take care of you if you were being a handful.” Her fingers tighten slightly in his shirt. “And I did,” he finishes simply.
Her shoulders finally drop all the way. The last rigid little line of tension in her spine melts under his palm. “I know,” she whispers.
Jack presses his lips to her hairline. “You don’t gotta audition for me, sweetheart. I love you, no matter what.” He feels her go still.
“I know,” she says again, quieter. “I love you too.”
He keeps holding her, not rushing the silence. It settles thick and warm and comfortably around them. After a while, her breathing evens out properly— she’s almost asleep.
Just before she drifts off, she mumbles, “You’re still gonna read that stupid journal tomorrow.”
He snorts softly. “Probably.”
“And I’m gonna complain again.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
A tiny, sleepy smile curves against his chest. His hand keeps moving— slow, steady, grounding— long after her body goes completely slack in sleep. Only when he’s certain she’s fully down does he let his eyes close too, one arm wrapped firm around her waist, anchoring her in place. Not because she’d run, but because he knows she sleeps better when she feels kept.