hi! my name is vic! back in my tumblr era after a long hiatus, thank you shawn hatosy! my previous blog imabbotbeliever was deleted by tumblr, so here i am rebuilding from scratch. i have a new found love of writing and I am pouring it all into the pitt!
꩜ blog info ꩜
this is a blog dedicated to the pitt with a sprikle of other fadoms for good measure. i am a mohabbot and jack abbot enthusiast! this blog is strictly an anti ai space, i may make mistakes and write badly but at least you know a human wrote it! while i rebuild my account, i will be reposting my saved fics back up here with the hope of getting my old blog back!
i am very anti ai, pro palestine, left wing, if you disagree with my beliefs you can kindly fuck off!
꩜ requests ꩜
my requests are: open | closed
i will write for most pitt characters (sfw) and shawn hatosy characters in general.
i am currently writing for jack abbot, samira mohan, mohabbot, trinity santos. open to both sfw and nsfw requests!
i won't write requests if they include fauxcest/incest/pet play/cnc as a personal prefrence!
꩜ masterlists ꩜
jack abbot master list
current fic series: slurpees, concussions and all things sweet
the pitt (all other characters master list): under construction come back soon!
pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader
summary: a little drabble/blurb about Jack Abbot’s favourite thing in the world, teasing you and making you beg for him.
wordcount: 1.9k
tags/content: smut, MDNI 18+, minor softdom!Jack if you squint, reader is a tease and she loves it, flirting, established relationship, no specified age for reader, pet names (baby, honey, sweet girl, sweetcheeks), minor impact play, fluff.
notes: Well this is my first time writing anything like this, the Abbot bug is too much, it is consuming my life lol. IDK about you but Jack in my mind is 100% a dom to some level so this I guess is a bit of an exploration of this. Any feedback on this is welcome pls be nice, it is so weird to put out my writing!
There is something about the way Jack loves to see you beg. It isn’t really about control, and if we are being honest here, he knows you hold all the control in the relationship. From the outside the stoic doctor seems like he has all the control; attending physician with the sweet girl by his side, doting on him daily and looking at him like he hung the moon. But all it take is one doe eyed look from you and hes a goner; you know he will give you everything you ask for, just so long as you beg for it. Like when you are standing in front of him after a romantic dinner, buzzed off a glass or two of wine and Jack’s intense eye contact. Leaning into him with a sweet smile as he hugs your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. As he pulls away from the heated kiss, you pout and stare at Jack, begging him to keep going, who meets you with an overexaggerated sigh:
“oh honey, i don’t know if i have it in me tonight.”
and you just pout at him, dragging him from the dimly lit doorway to the middle of the sidewalk, arms wrapped together holding hands you pull away melodramatically
“really honey, not tonight - not when I look like this?”
your free arm flailing by your side, showing off your dress you picked for today, giving Jack the perfect level of teasing and begging that makes him cave so, so quickly. As he pulls you back into his side gruffling as another couple passes you by smiling politely at the scene, Jack turns to you
“you really think putting on a show like this iis going to get me to give in to you?”
and you giggle, batting your eyelashes up at him
“please baby, we’ve been having such a good night”.
At this point the whiskey and wine is stirring up a warmth between your legs, making you both bold in the golden streetlight. Jack grabs your waist, letting his hand wander down towards the bottom of your ass, groping slightly as he pulls you towards the uber pickup point, murmuring,
“oh honey, yes we have, but maybe we call it a night here, hm?”
and the grin he flashes at you makes the warmth between your legs grow. As you wait for the uber to arrive, 3 minutes have never felt so long, swaying side to side you whimper leaning into his touch silently begging him to let his middle and ring finger push into your hip as he holds your side. But he is persistent on keeping up the act, humming away as if he isn’t listening to you, looking at the uber map. And when the uber arrives and you climb in first he can’t help but look at the way you dress rides up, knowing he has no intention of holding out on you when you get home. As Jack sits in beside you, niceties to the driver aside, he lays a firm grip on your thigh, whispers while looking forward, not an inch towards you
“maybe I’ll think about continuing our night when we get home baby”
and it takes every ounce of your strength to not moan out loud there and then. God, this man sure knows how to work a woman up.
Or when you are staring up at Jack, wetness pooling in your panties, waiting for him to make a move. You see, you can’t make a move for yourself, Jack has your arms pinned above your head with one hand as his other one roams the sheets around you, smoothing them out, occasionally touching the side of your hips or calves. He acts as if you aren’t there under him, tutting any time your hips grind the air looking for some relief. This has been going on for 15 minutes, and you have no idea how he has such restraint. Jack acts as if there is nothing a-miss in this scene, it seems to him that if someone walked in right now they would wonder why he was smoothing out the sheets with such determination.
“What's wrong baby, hm? You seem a little worked up down there.”
All you can do is whine, feet flattened on the bed to arch up higher, desperate to gain some kind of contact with Jack, and all he can do is smirk and laugh that filthy grovely laugh in response. His free hand starts to inch up your legs, flattening each down one at a time. Goose bumps rise in the wake of Jack’s touch, it runs up your legs, expertly teasing the sensitive insides of your thighs with the pads of his fingers gripping slightly before moving up to your hips. You hiss as he ignores your panties and core, hips grinding his as he lowers himself down on top of you, lips ghosting your hardened nipples.
“Jackie, please, ugh i ne-”
You moan into his touch, lips finally making contact with you nipple, his hand tightening its grip around your wrists above your head, his other grabbing your breast, hard. He relishes in your moans, relishes in how little it takes to work you up. You feel the hardness of him inbetween your legs, feverish with desire you try and use your leg to hook around his prosthetic for some kind of leverage, but he lifts off your tit with a pop and lets go of your other smirking with a level of cockiness only he can pull off. As his hand reaches down to push your leg off his,
“What's that my sweet girl? you're so needy today, what is it that you need, hm? Tell me baby”
Thoughts are barely reaching your lips, you moan again rolling your hips against his, eliciting a deep groan from him, but Jack’s impatience reaches its limit. He pulls off you completely, adjusting his stance to kneeling at the edge of the bed he stares at you.
“What am I going to do with my sweet girl”
He goes to stand off the bed, a faux annoyance washing over him, you keen desperately for him realising your mistake in not begging him to touch you. You flip yourself onto your stomach and crawl up the bed, your face resting on his thigh hand reaching for the top of his boxers.
“Baby m’sorry, please, please, touch me, I need you”
Now craning your head up to look and meet his darkened gaze, he smiles down at you. One hand reaching down to lift you off his leg and unclasp his prosthetic, once off, he pulls you up for a bruising kiss and pushes you back down onto the sheets. Taking his sweet time Jack relishes the heat radiating off your skin. Mouth crawling all over your skin peppering kisses and light sucking on the sensitive patches of skin under your Jaw, your side and your hips you breath another desperate “please” and with one last laugh against your skin Jack pulls your panties, now visibly damp to the side and gets to work with one long languid lick up your cunt.
“Oh my baby, I think you taste so much better when you beg”
With that he drives you mad and your hips buck into his mouth, two firm hands grip you and hold you to the sheets. You are his baby girl, and you do think you probably taste so much better after being worked up for so long.
Even if it is him teasing you in the living room, sitting together on a rare shared day off, lazily half paying attention to the boring nature documentary Jack insisted on watching. You go to reach for the tv remote resting on Jack’s lap, frustrated that he wants to watch something so mundane like migrationary birds, when you could be cuddled up watching a rom-com or at very least a thriller that has you pushing your head into his biceps. But no, Jack has caught on too quickly, snapping his attention from the tv to grab the remote from his lap and dangle it away from you. He laughs heartily, staring cockily at you, holding the tv remote just out of your reach taunting you.
“nuh-huh, not giving it to you until you say please!”
and he just loves the way your eyes light up laughing, reaching over him to try swipe it out of his hands. He pulls back even further, back stretched fully against the couch, creating as much distance as he can between your hands and his. He chuckles, changing the channel again to another nature documentary, and turns to you groaning, hopping onto your knees to gain a better vantage point. Jack just laughs some more, a murmur of nu-uh’s running out of his mouth, staring over at you. It’s a 50/50 chance that this ends up with you pinned writing under him, but this time it doesn’t. You wriggle your ass in your sweats as you lean over his lap, trying to distract him as you reach for the remote in his hands, but it's no use. His eye is still on the prize, eyebrows raised and you huff and he laughs as he lands a harsh slap on your ass,
“no way sweetcheeks, still need to say please!”
you give in letting out a yelp and a laugh, throwing your head back to look back at him, a slight arch in your back to try win him over once more
“ok, ok! Pleeease give it to me Jack!”
Big eyes over your shoulder, hair half covering your face you reach up towards his hand. Jack laughs letting you take the remote and grabbing your hips to pull you back over to where you were sitting. As you settle back in, after a fit of laughing, he leans down and whispers in your ear as if your in a crowded room as if the empty room was too innocent to hear what he wants to say to you
“don’t you think for one second i didn’t see what you were trying to do baby - you are trouble”.
You stare back up at him, eyes wide and bright with a devilish grin
“I have no idea what you are talking about baby”
and you snuggle back into him, paying extra attention on sticking your legs out and over his lap and squeezing your thighs together in his full view. Two can play this teasing game; and yes you are trouble, dressed in his old t-shirt and a pair of loose sweats, but you are his favourite kind of trouble.
꩜ thank you for reading! | reblogs, likes, comments are always appreciated ꩜
How it feels to genuinely enjoy the Pitt and not get caught up on every little bad thing a character has done because they’re all complex human beings and none of them are truly evil like everyone in this fandom seems to think
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
summary: a blurb about reader and jack’s escapades in bed. With filming mini sex tapes being one of their favourite ways to spice things up in the bedroom.
tags/content: smut 18 + MDNI, sex tapes, dirty talk, pet names, idk its pretty self explanatory, softdom!abbot, established relationship, freak4freak.
a/n: if you think you have seen this before you may have! my old account imabbotbeliever was deleted by the tumblr gods so i am reposting my old work! back to regular a/n! explicit writing eeeek! luv the idea of freak4freak gotta meet each other on the same page, implied previous conversations on kink/boundaries etc. Healthy boundaries and communication is important and hot u guys!
There is really something about how Abbot loves to film you. He really is obsessed with you, the way you squirm under his gaze, under his touch, and of course under his filthy habit of filming little snippets of your sex life. You can see it in his eyes, he’d be all sweet and loving on you rubbing down your tits, whispering sweet nothings into your ears as he bites down on your ear and jaw. You’d see the glint in his eyes when you moan a bit louder at the contact of his teeth with your jaw and he pulls back quickly, pushing into you deeply. Without missing a beat (or thrust), Jack reaches over you to get his phone from the nightstand, telling his pretty girl to keep going, just like that, with you taking over, rocking your hips up towards Jack with a level of determination you reserve only for the bedroom. He takes his phone in one hand, and drills into you just the way you like it, eyes rolling back and whimpers running out of your mouth. Oh it’s like he is so obsessed with catching you mid orgasm, clawing at him to pay attention to you, but no, he is too busy with his phone,
“Sush, this is for us - for when we aren’t together baby”.
And you stretch more, over exaggerate like the good girl you are, tits up to the camera, desperate for him to tell you how well you are doing, a firm hand landing on the side of your hip, squeezing the soft flesh, half moons from his nails pressing into your skin.
“oh Jackie please, please, oh please - yes!”,
exclaiming as he aids you riding out that wave, thumb of his freehand swirling around your clit, laughing smugly at your desperation. As much as Jack loves to see you like this, his favourite part, to catch on camera, more than your desperate moans or your hips rocking harshly against his, it is his ropes hitting your chest with you all blissed out, pussy pulsing from the sudden loss of him inside. He murmurs over and over as he cums -
“oh god yeah, such a pretty girl for me - oh god f-uck”.
He makes damn sure to zoom in on how his cum looks on your plush tits, capturing the obscenity of it all. As you both come down from it all, heavy breathing and deep kisses, Jack puts the phone down beside you turning it off. With one deep kiss on your jaw he tells you that he doesn’t think its possible to love you anymore, telling you in between laboured breaths that your his -
“Sweet, sweet angel, I love you so much baby”
If anyone found out what the two of you got up to in the bedroom, you’d be mortified, you think you’d have to leave the country from embarrassment, but in the moment Jack makes you feel so good, so safe and so loved that you couldn’t care less that he takes out his phone, in fact, you secretly love putting on the performance of a lifetime for him as he shines the camera light in your face. Afterwards, you are lying in bed, water in hand, chest cleaned with the precision only he could have, head on his chest curled in as if you’d die if you didn’t have as much surface area contact between your bodies as possible, asking Jack -
“You would never show anyone these videos would you?”
the post sex clarity and anxiety slowly seeping in. Jack sweeps the messy strands of your hair off your forehead, looking down on you with a level of softness that makes your legs weak. A look of concern washes over his eye, as he pushes those gorgeous, now damp, curls off of his forehead, trying to gauge how serious you are being right now. You know he wouldn’t ever actually do anything with the video or spread it around, but you need to be reassured anyways.
“No sweetness, why would I ever do something so cruel to you?”
And you hum sleepily against his side curled up, and god, you would do anything to stay like this forever. As you sink further into his side, Jack thinks of all the times he’s looked at the select few videos he has of you, tucked away in a private password protected folder, made especially for when your schedules don’t align and god the sound of your moans nearly give him a heart attack with how much it makes him want you. It leaves him counting down the hours until the next time he gets to hear you keen “Jackie” at him again. He sighs in sync with you, wondering what he did to deserve a woman like you in his life, his sweet, sweet girl.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
we really can’t overstate how damaging it has been to indoctrinate the public with the idea that if they let themselves eat as much as they want, they’ll eat too much. human bodies, when permitted over the long term to eat as much as they want, actually get really, really good at calibrating their hunger and satiety, and will over time eat exactly the right amount for themselves. the common conception of a balanced eater as a minimal or restrained eater is absolutely wrong. balanced eaters eat quite a lot (compared to diet cultural ideas about right intake amounts), and they do so consistently and permanently. healthy, balanced eating isn’t some tightrope walk, it’s a gigantic net of total permission to eat.
summary: you and jack have always been flirty and unfortunately that really doesn’t help the huge crush you have on him. seeing him with his girlfriend also really doesn’t help your huge crush.
contents: reader has a nickname (spooky), flirting, talk of mortuary sciences (death, bodies, etc), slight angst, miscommunication, reader is oblivious, only physical description is reader’s boobs, oral (f receiving), nipple/breast play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, fluff, inspired by olivia rodrigo’s maggots for brains
a/n: this is my first time trying to write anything remotely fluffy and i kind of wanted it to feel like a rom com! the medicine in this is probably not accurate at all but i needed it to conform to the plot for storytelling purposes so please forgive any mistakes!! also my first time properly writing smut in…a while so go easy on me i am RUSTY
Mondays are for psychopaths you think, not for the first time, as you watch the hour hand inch past 3 on the clock above your desk.
3AM, that is.
3AM on a Monday morning and you're sat surrounded by the dead.
At this point, the stack of paperwork beneath your hand is meaningless. To you at least, of course. Obviously. Super important for the poor guy who's name is printed in block letters across the top. And his family. Of course.
Truthfully, though, you've just been sat staring at the clock for the last 45 minutes, glazed over eyes and face smushed against your fist, willing your head not to drop forward in a sleepy trance. The graveyard of red bull cans in front of you have unfortunately not worked their magic, and you point blank refuse to even touch the hot tar in the breakroom some heathen has labelled as coffee.
In order to actually finish the custody forms and crosschecking them with sampling logs, you reason that you need to force your brain into gear. Surely stretching your legs will suffice. And if that leg stretch concludes with a lap around the ER which may or may not coincide with a certain nocturnal chief attending's rounds then that will simply be the world's largest coincidence.
A certain nocturnal chief attending who you may or not be working up the courage to ask out for dinner. Eventually.
You've been given enough encouragement by your friends, the usual "What's the worst he could say? No?".
Yes, the worst he could say is no, actually.
Well, not technically. He could turn around and spew off insults and declarations of total disgust and hatred for you. But you figure that reaction would go against the months and months of cheeky smiles and winks brandished in your direction, the inside jokes and flirty comments he greets you with, the smiley faces (and the one-time scribbled out heart!!!) he leaves on the sticky notes littered on the forms he sends downstairs.
So, really, a no would be the worst thing. A no would confirm that you'd done it again- read too far into things, saw signs that were more like mirages- an oasis granting affection in the touch-starved desert that is your love life.
A no would mean having to look into the eyes of a man you have admired for longer than you'd care to admit and watch him reject you. Which he is more than entitled to, of course! You'd take it on the chin and respect his no.
Then lock yourself in your office and sob loud enough to wake the bodies housed on the other side of your office door.
Dr Abbot wouldn't be your first rejection, of course. Far from it. To be human is to be rejected, and you'd learned long ago that picking yourself back up is the only response you can have if you want to remain human.
It would be the first to stop you in your tracks, though, you think. Your professional lives are so entwined- you're the one he calls every time he needs a deceased patient moving, or a DOA evaluated, or legal forms need both of your approval. Even the of his residents who show interest in mortuary rotations have to speak to the both of you, and you always manage to cross paths at hospital galas and fundraisers.
Quite frankly, you would survive the fallout. You would move on, tell yourself that you're a grown woman who has before and will again face rejection. Your professional lives would be just the same.
Your heart is another matter entirely.
It doesn't care that you're a woman with nearly three decades of earthly experiences. Or that your career is logically more important than a silly infatuation with the silver haired grump upstairs.
A muscle so intent on latching onto said silver haired grump cannot possibly care about logic.
Apparently, neither does your brain- the logic machine- as your calf muscles burn through the stretch of the seemingly endless stairs up to the ER.
The floor is almost awkwardly quiet tonight, your trainers squeaking against the linoleum and the sound of your heavy-ish breathing making you wince slightly with every movement. Box breathing is all you can do to tamp it down as you make your way through half empty corridors, every couple of rooms housing a patient but otherwise unusually inactive. The witching hour usually brings a whole host of crazy energy whirlwinding through the ER doors.
Perfect conditions for the native species of nightcrawler who infest this floor.
"Spook. Over here."
Your head snaps to the right at the familiar cadence of your favourite night shift attending. (Only marginally more favoured than Ellis, if only for the fact that Jack doesn't raid your super secret stash of cookies.)
You've gone by that nickname now for longer than your own name. Spook, or Spooky- bestowed upon you by Jack himself after he spotted the poster in your office. The UFO and 'I WANT TO BELIEVE' matching with that of Agent Fox Mulder's from The X-Files.
You suppose there are worse things to be called.
And, admittedly, you probably do come across as marginally spooky what with being cooped up with the dead four days a week.
"Hi."
"Hi."
That lopsided smile. It reminds you of the angle of Orion's bow in your favourite constellation. And the spray of freckles across his face reminds you of the Milky Way. You're almost certain you can trace a path between them, make up your own constellation.
"How are things downstairs?" Jack prompts the conversation at the sight of your slightly glazed eyes. He doesn't want to go so far as to assume it's because of him, so he'll chalk it up to the hour and the steadily growing army of empty red bull cans he's sure are encroaching on your desk.
You rock back and forth on your heels, hands fumbling to do something- anything- in front of you, "Oh, you know. Peachy. Lively as always."
The smile returns, this time more of a purse of his lips, as if biting back a chuckle. At you or with you: you're not sure you want to know.
"As always." Reaching for the tablet in front of him, he starts off in the direction of the triage bays, "Fancy joining me on my rounds tonight, Spooky?"
"Oh, yeah! Can't promise I'll be much help- my expertise is more use for those patients who don't really need fixing anymore."
He looks over his shoulder at you, smirking as you stumble on your feet to rush after him. Like a puffin, he thinks, not for the first time. A very cute puffin.
"Mmm, I'm sure we'll find a use for you yet, Spook. What're you doing up here in the land of the living anyway?" He looks back down to his screen as he walks, content with the knowledge that you're by his side.
You look around the ER with wide eyes like you're seeing it for the first time (even though this probably marks the thousandth time).
"Hm? Oh, um, I…needed to stretch my legs. Thought I'd come up and grace you all with my presence." A hollow chuckle betrays you slightly and from the amused look Jack throws your way, he believes you even less.
Thankfully he lets you get away with the obvious lie, swiping through the charts to find the one he's searching for. He stops in front of a curtain and briefly announces his presence to the patient on the other side, giving them an additional second before gently pulling the curtain aside with a practiced smile. One you've been on the receiving end of countless times, the one you're sure is laced with calming properties. You've seen many a patient be talked down from ledges just with that smile; the one that says I'm here, I understand, I've got you, we'll do this together.
Jack brings himself down to the patient's level, seating himself on the rolling stool, "Mr Romano, I'm Dr Abbot- this is another of our doctors here at PTMC, do you mind if she observes our chat for a minute?"
The patient looks nervously towards you so you take that as a sign to introduce yourself, telling him your name, "I'm normally downstairs in the mortuary, it's nice to meet you up here!"
The facepalm Jack makes immediately after you finish speaking makes your heart jump. Mr Romano's head shoots towards Jack, eyes wide like dinner plates, "Mortuary?! What? I am dying?" His thick Italian accent reverbs off the walls as you wince and rush to placate him.
"No- no,"
"Mr Romano, everything is fine. My colleague is just brushing up on her bedside manner," Jack pointedly looks towards you though you can see the amusement in his eyes from here, "You came in with laceration to your thumb, that is all. Once it's stitched you'll be free to go. No one is dying any time soon."
His words seem to calm the man if only momentarily, so Jack uses the sliver of calm to inform him that a nurse will be in to stitch him up shortly before ushering you out of the bay and shutting the curtain behind him.
You walk to the nurses station with your hands covering your face, refusing to even look at Jack.
"How bad was it?" Your voice comes out mumbled from behind your palms.
Instead of the reprimand you were expecting, you hear a throaty chuckle which quickly dissolves into uncontrollable giggles. A warm hand comes up to grip your fingers, gently removing them from your face. The sight of Jack's laughing face sets off your own, his out of amusement and yours out of embarassment.
"God, Spooky. 'I'm from the mortuary'? Really?" His imitation of your voice only worsens both of your giggling.
"I didn't know what to say! I haven't had to speak to a living patient in years! God he must've thought I was the grim reaper or something." At this point, your quickly warming forehead is pressed to the cool surface of the nurses station.
Jack rounds the desk, still chuckling, to sit in a chair, "You say anything but that, sweetheart. Anything. Did you see his face? Poor guy."
You bring your head up to glower at him still laughing at your expense, "Yeah, keep it up, giggleshits."
That only makes him laugh harder. You can still hear him when you turn and start back down the corridor. The sooner you get back to your safe space with no talking and moving patients, the better.
"Aw, Spook, don't run off! We were just getting started!"
A backwards middle finger is all he receives in reponse.
His chuckling it still audible when you reach the stairs.
A week later, you're back in a very familiar position, only this time during normal people hours.
The dayshift proves a stark opposite to that of the night shift; you're sure you've almost run into at least four separate people in the two minutes you've been on the ER floor. You watch with darting eyes as patients and staff alike flit and scurry between rooms, codes are called, and an incessant hum seems to hover above everything.
There is significantly too much life and noise happening up here for your taste.
Robby had called you a few minutes ago saying he needed your assistance with moving a patient and you find him outside of the family viewing room, a somber smile on his face. Whilst you enjoy each other's company, you'd both much prefer if your professional meetings were kept to a minimum.
Over your years working with him, you've come to find Robby views death as sadness completely. You suppose it makes sense; his job is to help these people, to do everything he possibly can to nurse them back to health- or at least stability before another specialist can swoop in. He is the frontlines for any and all emergencies and so death to him is a failing. Personal and professional.
From your perspective, death is a process. All of us die, some of us at the very hospital you work at. It's your job to treat all of your patients with dignity and respect, making sure they each receive the best possible standard of care. You see death as a ritual, and you have a sacred purpose to take care of their physical body and appreciate the life they lived. If you stopped to grieve for every person you performed on, you'd be stuck in one place infinitely.
If anything, you now have a deep appreciation for your own life. The job just comes with the added bonuses of developing a strong stomach and dark humour.
"Hey, Spooky, thanks for coming up. Sorry for the craziness around here, you know how it is." His accompanying laugh is more of a mirthless breath through his nose.
"Dr Robby, no problem, haha..yeah."
No, actually, you don't know. The speed up here is miles ahead of the one you're used to.
To his credit, Robby doesn't allow the awkwardness to linger for too long, instead sweeping you into the room with a palm hovering over your mid-back.
Transport support is already waiting inside the viewing room as you set to work on the usual identification and verification processes, checking over the death notification paperwork and ID tag, removing the little remaining medical apparatus from the patient's body, and securing a chin strap to ensure both dignity and practicality. After you give the go ahead to the transport staff member, they help you move the patient into a bag and then with securing the body with the concealment gurney. You give Anton, the transport staff, a murmur of thanks before asking him to move the body downstairs using the back elevator and noting that you'll be down in a moment once Robby and you finalise paperwork.
You find Robby waiting outside the room, his chin titled towards his shoes in thought.
"Hey, all finished in there, I'll be heading down to process them in a minute."
His eyes meet yours, some of the heaviness from before replaced with the professionality all doctors have to master- especially when they are the Chief Attending of an city's emergency department, "Thanks, Spooky. You're an angel."
The toothy, too-wide grin you give back makes him smile even more. You never could take a compliment.
At the nurses station, Robby turns to you with both the paperwork you need to complete and an expression you recognise all too well. You've worked with him for too long not to know when Michael Robinavitch is scheming.
"…What? Do I have something on my face?" Your hand haphazardly sweeps at your mouth, praying the pesto pasta salad you brought for lunch isn't smeared across your chin.
"No, no. You look great. Just…a question, if you will."
Your eyes narrow in suspicion, "Hmm, why do I not like where this is going already?"
Robby chuckles, "God, Spooky, at least hear me out before you start accusing me of something."
"You have that look, Robinavitch. I know that look."
His eyes roll good-naturedly before they meet Dana's over the other side of the desk, her own spying on the two of you from above the glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
"I just wanted to ask if you'd put any more thought into that gala. Gloria's been on my ass about numbers and representing the hospital properly, putting on a united front, yada yada. 'S all bureaucratic bullshit, but someone's gotta do it."
Robby watches in thinly veiled amusement as your head tips back on a groan, "Fuck. I completely forgot." You look over at Dana, still watching curiously, for moral support, "Do I have to?"
She raises both hands in surrender, one holding a patient chart and the other the bright red hospital landline, "Hey, don't look at me, Spooks. I got nothin' to do with those bigwigs upstairs."
Unfortunately for you, your puppy dog eyes do not have the same effect on Robby as they do on Jack, "Put those eyes away, missy. Someone from your department has to go or Gloria will ride your ass so hard you'll be drowning in paperwork for the next year."
Robby's words make your whole face screw up in a cringe, "Please, don't ever put that image in my brain ever again."
He simply laughs out loud before fatherly patting you on the back, "You'd best send Gloria confirmation of your attendance." Handing you the final sheet of paperwork, he pauses as if remembering something important, "Oh, actually, you know who else is going? Jack. Huh, at least you won't be alone."
With that, he picks up a chart and heads towards a triage bay. His words make you pause: if Jack is attending then maybe the night won't be so bad, his presence might just make up for the painful amount of schmoozing with potential donors you're going to have to do. Seeing him in a suit will also make the brain melting act of socialising easier to stomach. Maybe you can even dress up nice to feel confident enough to ask him for dinner sometime. You wonder absentmindedly if your sister still has that formal dress from her friend's cousin's wedding sat in the back of her wardrobe.
When you look up, you realise how in your own head you were when you spot Dana smirking knowingly at you, "Don't. Even."
Both eyebrows raise in faux innocence, "My lips are sealed."
After three back to back shifts the last place you want to be right now is in a crowded, overly decorated banquet hall surrounded by the best doctors in the tri-state area, the wealthiest Pennsylvania has to offer, and staff who look like they also want to be anywhere but serving comically tiny hors d'oeuvres to stuffy old white men.
It'd taken your sister over an hour to convince you to leave the house in the dress you're wearing and, despite how good you felt when you first tried it on, you suddenly feel ridiculously out of place considering your day to day attire is usually frumpy scrubs, a hair net, and your comfiest shoes.
A small part of you- well, perhaps a large majority- is hoping you'll find Jack tonight and he'll be starstruck by your dress. That same part of you that has existed since you were a pre-teen and your love of rom coms was kickstarted, watching scenes of undercover princesses swaying down palace steps in a gorgeous dress and captivating the eyes and hearts of Chad Michael Murray and Heath Ledger.
It's a satin fabric in a rich plum colour, an asymmetrical neckline showcasing the oiled skin of one shoulder, boning across the mid-section to accentuate your waist and hips, and the rest falling in smooth pleats around your calves. The silver heels on your feet started hurting before you even got in the Uber here and you're almost 100% positive you lost bloodflow to your pinky toe around seven minutes ago. Grinning and bearing it seems the only option.
You've already made the rounds a couple of times, your schmoozing power running on empty to match the empty champagne glass you've been clutching like a lifeline instead of awkwardly fiddling with your hands as usual.
You're still yet to spot Jack amongst the crowd you think to yourself, and, as if by magic, there he appears. You spy him chatting with a group of donors you're yet to try and work some of your unusual charm with, their faces all alight with rapt fascination as he no doubt captivates them with his otherworldly charisma. He'll be regaling them with some story of his time overseas, or managing to spin a patient story into a subtle yet effective appeal for donations.
He looks as dashing as ever, even if you are only glimpsing him from behind; his deep slate suit stretches taut over broad shoulders, pants tailored to perfection, and his more salt than pepper curls perfectly coiffed. You hope he's missed a day or two of shaving. You love the stubble that grows in after only a short amount of time and have spent more time than is probably healthy imagining how the scruff would feel between your thighs.
Setting out to cross the bustling room to reach his side, the crowd he was previously entertaining seem to fall away with wide grins and pats to his back, leaving him stood alone with possibly the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen.
Your steps fumble slightly, not wanting to make a fool of yourself by marching over there when he's in conversation with someone else.
Especially not when he's smiling like that at her.
She's in a long sleek dress to match her long sleek hair and she looks so elegant you're unsure if she's even real. Of course he'd be smiling like that at her.
Her elegance doesn't bother you nearly as much, though, as the hand on his arm does. Her fingers are wrapped around the crook of his elbow in such a way that looks natural, familiar. And he's not rejecting it. Jack is standing there letting her paw at him, smiling at her in that way that says I'm listening, I'll always listen to you that you foolishly believed might just have been exclusive to you.
For just a minute- though it feels like an eon- you stand and watch them; how good they look together, how naturally they seem to fit together, how she throws her head back on a laugh and he watches the clean line of her throat. It feels like a car crash you can't look away from, though you know the only car crash is the nosedive your potential relationship with Jack just took off the Fort Pitt Bridge.
In the years you've worked with Jack, you've never once heard him mention a partner- you knew he was divorced, everyone at the Pitt knew that, but you had no idea he was seeing anyone. And, from the way they're stood together, they can't be anything but a couple. It makes you feel sick thinking about how many hours you must've accumulated flirting with Jack over the years. How he'd never shut it down- had played along, even. Once again, you feel like that same silly teenage girl again; awkward and a hopeless romantic, only to find out that the cute flirty guy next to you in biology class had been dating your friend since the beginning of junior year.
You feel stupid and small and really fucking uncomfortable in this dress that you wore for him.
Behind you, you hear someone call your name and, deciding you've seen enough, you turn from the smoldering remains that was your crush on Dr Abbot.
In turning away, you miss the way Jack's ears perk up completely at the distant sound of your name, swinging his head around the room in an attempt to find you and the sting he feels in his chest when he can't.
The pile of papers on your desk has officially reached critical mass.
You're at the point where one strong shove of your office door may result in bureaucratic disaster, however sorting and filing them properly would require a trip to the ER. The same ER in which you have been completely avoiding for the last two weeks due to the residence of a certain silver haired grump.
You'd received exactly one message from him at the end of last week (when you figure he finally caught on to the fact that you were quite obviously avoiding him);
Jack's Abs: Hey Spook, everything okay? Didn't see you at the fundraiser dinner, must've missed each other. Let me know if you want to come up and help with rounds again at any point. I'll make sure you don't frighten any patients half to death this time. - Jack
You'd only deigned to reply with a thumbs up emoji, to which you figure he must've guessed he'd done something wrong as he hasn't contacted you since.
In all honesty, you miss him. You miss the chats you would sneak together in the break room between lulls, you miss the way he would make any excuse to come downstairs to visit you, you miss the way he'd always have an energy drink chilling in the fridge for you- hidden behind the leftovers that have gone untouched for so long he's sure no one will bother to look behind them. You miss him when you see something funny on Instagram and you can't show him it, when normally you'd send it to him and watch him furrow his brows in old man confusion.
You've moped around so much for the past two weeks that even your assisstant, Sylvie, has been giving you shit for it.
"Girl, you've been slouching around here like a zombie for too long. Go talk to him!" She's sat in the chair on the other side of your packed desk, her feet propped precariously on one of the smaller piles of paper teetering on the edge of the cherrywood. You're slouched in your reclined office chair, head in your hands as you massage an incoming migraine from your temples.
"You should've seen them, Sylv- there was no way that wasn't his girlfriend. I feel so embarassed."
The whine in your voice makes Sylvie's eyes soften in sympathy, "Hun, there is no way that a man who looks at you like Dr Abbot looks at you has eyes for any other woman. Did you ask him if they were together?"
Shuffling your fingers apart, you peek up at her nervously, "…No?"
The eye roll you receive is expected, the tinfoil ball from her sandwich being thrown at your head, is not.
"Okay, well, if you're not going to take these up, I will." Sylvie begins precariously stacking papers in her arms and heads for your office door, "I'll be sure to tell Dr Abbot you asked after him."
All you can do is cover your face again and groan, slouching down even further into your chair.
It's your day off and you're still moping. Only now, you can mope from the comfort of your own home.
You've not even left the house today, even though you know definitely should've when you open the fridge door and all that's in there is a half-drunk carton of orange juice and a moldy punnet of cherries. The weather is another reason you haven't left the house today, the thunder and lightning and lashing rain mirroring the emotional deluge happening inside your head.
A tiny, insane, part of you thinks maybe you should risk a grocery run today. Should risk driving in the torrential rain if only for the fact that the grocery store is in PTMC's catchment area and any accident that may've happened to you on those rain-slick roads would've resulted in the potential for Jack to be the one taking care of you. You dismiss the thought as soon as it pops into your head, immediately apalled at yourself, and decide to just rot the rest of the night away on your couch. You're sure you have some stovetop popcorn hidden in a cupboard somewhere.
You're almost through Four Weddings and a Funeral, just about to reach Hugh Grant's famous love confession to Carrie in the torrential rain when you hear a pounding on your front door.
Immediately, you check your phone to make sure you didn't accidentally order a pizza in you zombie-like state and make some poor delivery driver make the trek to your house in the storm, only for another, much longer, knock to sound through your living room.
You hop up from the couch, fastening the belt of your robe around you tighter as you swing open the front door to be met with a very wet Jack Abbot.
"What the hell are you doing here?", You shout to be heard over the thunder rolling behind him, brows furrowing in desparate confusion.
Jack brings a hand up to swipe his dripping curls from his face, slicking them back only for the shortest at the front to stick to his temples, "You've been avoiding me for weeks!"
"So you show up at my house?! In a storm?!"
"I had no other choice!"
Looking at him dripping wet on your doorstep makes your defences wither faster than you'd like, "God, Jack, just- just come in. Come in. I'll get you some towels and something to wear." He lets out a breath of relief, making sure to keep his feet on your doormat as he removes his soaked shoes and jacket, trying to minimise the mess he is guaranteed to make. When you return from the towel cupboard, you find him standing sheepishly still in your doorway now with the door closed at least, "Come on, you can sit on the couch- I'll put towels down."
Whilst he busies himself with drying off, you go in search of the biggest sweatpants and hoodies you can find, hoping you have something buried in the back of your wardrobe, and when you get back your heart bursts out of your chest at the sight of Jack's wet t-shirt halfway off of his body, arms stretching backwards to rip it off. When his head is free of the soaked fabric, he catches your widened eyes, curls still damp and now ruffled, the skin of his chest and arms reddened from the cold.
"He-here," you have to clear your throat to speak a coherent sentence, "take these- they should fit. Hopefully." You all but toss the clothes at him and make an escape to the kitchen in a plan to bring him a warm drink and to put his own clothes in the dryer.
Jack takes the time to scan your living room, a space he's never been privy to before but always wondered about- wondered whether you like to keep things neat and minimalist or go all out with bright colours and clutter. From what he can see, it's very you. He loves it. Although he's not sure his opinions on interior design have any weight considering his own house has looked the exact same (if he had to pick a word to describe its aesthetic, he would choose showhouse, Robby would choose sad) since his divorce years ago.
"Black, one sugar." You place a coffee down in front of him, settling in opposite him with your own mug of no doubt something teeth-rottingly sweet that most likely no longer classifies as coffee.
"Thanks, Spook."
For the first time in all of the years you've known each other, the silence between you is awkward. It feels like there's an impenetrable barrier between the two of you, something tangible, something you can reach out and crush betwene your fingers. For the first time ever, you don't know how to talk to each other.
So, Jack takes the leap of faith.
"We need to talk, sweetheart."
The eyes you look at him with make his chest tighten immeasurably, there's hurt and guilt and longing and want burned into your pupils, so clear he can read them like his favourite book.
"You've been avoiding me, for a while now. Too long, really. And I just want to know what I did." Jack puts his coffee down and scoots forward on the couch, eyes wide in desperation, "Did I fuck up? I want to make it right, but I'm at a loss here, Spook. I miss us. I miss you."
"I don't know if you should be saying that, Jack. It's…inappropriate."
If it was possible, he's somehow leaning even farther forward, trying to get as close to you as he can whilst still respecting the clear space you've put between the two of you, "To who? We've always done this. It's been you and me since day one, Spooky."
"God, your girlfriend, Jack. Or partner- wife- whatever she is to you. I'm not coming between that, okay?"
Jack's eyes narrow in confusion, "Girlfriend? I don't have a girlfriend, or-or a partner or a wife."
The pit in your stomach widens, "You…don't?"
"Of course I don't. How could I when I have you? If you aren't filling any of those roles I don't want it." Out of all the expressions you've seen Jack Abbot wear, this one is a first. It's desperate, pleading, pure want.
"What about the woman in the black dress- from the fundraiser dinner? You two seemed…friendly." You can't even look at him as you say it, embarassment swirling in your chest.
"You mean Val? My sister's wife? She's on the board for the woman's clinic outside Presby. Spooky, she's family. I promise you. I'll get out the fucking family albums if you want me too, sweetheart." And god help you, you know Jack would never lie to you. Not about something like this.
"Oh."
The smile he gives you is one of hope and sympathy, "Yeah."
"Well…now I feel stupid."
Jack laugh is full of pity and amused exasperation, "Me too, Spook."
There's one thing still left to clarify, though, "Did you mean what you said before? About…me. Being your…girlfriend or whatever."
Jack's smile is megawatt now, "Oh, my silly girl, get over here."
In an instant, you're rounding the coffee table, and straddling Jack's lap. His hands reach to cup your face automatically, bringing it to down to meet his awaiting mouth. The kiss is desperate and searching, your tongues sweeping each other's mouths, dying to memorise the feel of each other.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" you pant between kisses, "I'm sorry I avoided you i just-"
"Shh, shh. 'S Okay, sweets. You're okay, I'm here now, hm?" Jack's hands are placating as they smooth over your body, gripping your curves, memorising the feel of your hips, "Now, I love this robe but I wanna see what's under it, yeah? That sound good?"
You nod frantically, aching to have his big hands touch your heated skin. He gently unties the knot, pushing the satin fabric from around your shoulders to pool at your feet. Instantly, his hands are going to your nipples poking from under thin material of your tank top, pinching and rolling and pulling. His mouth drops to envelop one through the fabric, teeth just and so nibbling at it before his tongue sweeps out to soothe. When he pulls away his eyes are heavy lidded at the sight of the wet spot on your tank and the outline of your swollen nipple even more prominent.
He looks up at you, your neck thrown back and whimpers pouring from you, "These tits, sweetheart. The things I've imagined doing to them."
You meet his eyes with your own hooded ones, "Yeah?"
"They're fucking perfect. Perfect for me." His fingers reach to pull the fabric of your tank down under your heavy tits, nipples jutting out proudly. Jack groans uncontrollably, mouth attatching to your tits once again like a man starved. Your hips works against his own, little shorts bunching up against the sweatpants you leant him, though you can feel the unmistakable bulge he's sporting.
"Where's your bedroom sweetheart?", Jack mumbles around a mouthful of your breast, his bite marks and spit leaving a trail across the delicate skin.
You point with a shaking hand in the direction of your room and, within ten seconds, he's pulling you up to stand so he can yank you down the corridor. Once he locates your bed, he shoves you down, standing between your parted legs as you prop yourself into your elbows. Jack takes you in, tits pressed together above the fabric of your top, tiny shorts hiding next to nothing, the outline of your perfect soaked cunt on display for him, your face already sweat slick and looking freshly fucked. He thinks you're the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.
You watch with unconcealed lust as his rips the sweatshirt from over his head, pushes his sweatpants down, and reaches to remove his prosthetic leg. You watch that part with more interest- next time you want to be the one to do it for him. Once he's done, he leans against the bed, one of your ankles in each of his hands as he begins planting kiss after kiss up the side of your leg. Some are small pecks, others open mouthed, all whilst looking directly at you. Your jaw is touching your heaving chest at this point.
He finally gets to the apex of your thighs, the fat dimpling under his fingers as he places kiss after kiss over the fabric of your shorts, tongue coming out to poke at your clit, nose taking deep lungfuls of you. Your gasps and whimpers spur him on as he looks up at you, "Sweet girl, I want you to take these off for me."
You're nodding and hooking your fingers beneath the waistband instantly, hips lifting from the bed in what should feel an awkward move but doesn't as Jack keeps his eyes on yours- reassuring, guiding, loving. When the shorts are eventually hooked over one ankle, he slips them off and returns to face your cunt, weeping and leaking for him. Once he reaches what he's after he envelops your clit, nose smushing against the thatch of hair above your pussy, tongue sweeping across you, "God, Jack, oh my god-". For what feels like hours he suckles, kisses, licks, fucks you with his tongue. When he comes up for air, his face is glistening, the scruff you love so much completely doused in you.
Your hands grab at his curls, guiding him to where you need him most. His own hands come up to play with your tits, rolling and pinching, sometimes just grabbing handfuls of the plush flesh as if he needs something to ground him. You see his own hips working at the bed beneath him, unable to keep still at the sensation of completely devouring your cunt.
When he feels you beginning to reach the edge of your orgasm, he brings one hand down, rolling your clit beneath the pad of his thumb, his fingers dipping shallowly into your pussy, "Come on, sweet girl, come for me. You can do it, I've got you." Your hips are uncontrollable, writhing and rolling against him, your thighs clamping down on his ears as your first orgasm collides into you. It's less of a plunge and more of a tidal wave, one big wave and lots of slightly smaller jolts that pull you just as far under.
"Yeah, that's it. You're so pretty when you come, baby."
Jack unwinds his hands from your thighs when you release him, moving to his knees to crawl over you. His mouth brushes your stomach as he moves, the skin instantly tightening making him glance up at you as he leans down and presses a firmer kiss to the skin still covered by your tank top.
"You're beautiful. Don't hide from me. I know what you look like, Spook." He tenderly thumbs at your temple as he says it, looking between your eyes. The kiss he plants on the bridge of your nose brings a prickle to your eyes. Before any tears can fall, though, Jack is lining his hips up with yours, the tip of his cock just and so pressing at your hole, "You want me baby? Hm?"
"Yes, yes- please, please. Need it, Jack-" His lips cut you off from anymore begging.
"Okay, sweet girl, you're okay. You'll get it. You'll get it all."
With a deep groan, Jack pushes in in one fell swoop, and it feels like fireworks explode behind your eyes. Like finding the missing puzzle piece. Like you've finally found your person. He's still for a moment, his face buried in your neck and hands gripping your waist, whilst he gives the both of you a second to acclimate.
"Please, Jack."
At your words, he begins a rhythm that feels like your favourite song and the beat of both your hearts, and, listening to Jack's heartbeat now they might just be the same thing.
His hips meet the backs of your thighs, the very tip of his cock reaching the very deepest parts of you. The neatly trimmed hair above his cock catches deliciously on your clit. He's so thick you can feel him everywhere.
"Oh sweetheart. you're perfect. You feel so good. So wet- oh my god-" Jack murmurs into your ear, not holding back from moaning and whimpering right against it. He blanketing you with his full body and you've never felt so secure. Your hands are in his curls once again, nails blindly scratching at the base of his skull and travelling down to his freckled shoulders. You rake lines down his back just slightly, not enough to draw blood but enough to know you were there, "Yeah, baby- like that. Feels s'good," His pistoning hips continue to meet yours filthily, echoing through the room in a delicious symphony.
"Gonna cum with me this time, sweets. Come on, you're nearly there- can feel it.", With his thumb back on your clit, he continues fucking you towards your orgasms. You can once again feel that tidal wave approaching though your ears are muffled now, as if underwater, your head fuzzy and fucked out. Your brain whites out completely as you cum, leaking onto the matress below you, "Come on, baby, now. Cum for me. Yeah- yes. Ohh my god-", Jack's whimpers mix with your own until you're creating a perfect harmony, his hips still fucking you through both of your orgasms, and, though they're slowing, they're no less intense.
Your ears are ringing by the time you come back down to Earth, Jack's heavy breathing the first thing you tune back into, "Oh, you're so perfect. My perfect girl. I love you." His tiny kisses are pressed to the skin of your cheeks, nose, lips, forehead- anywhere he can reach.
You giggle up at him, still spacey and fucked out and exhausted. But happy, so so happy, "I love you, too."
When he chuckles back at you through a kiss, his teeth pressing to your lips, you can't help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
A couple of hours later, with the storm still raging outside, you're huddled with Jack under fresh bedding and the TV playing some random true crime documentary. You're propped against your headboard with Jack nestled into your bare chest, and your nails scratching at the skin of his freckled back.
"Do you not see enough of this shit at work, Spooky?", Jack asks as an autopsy is described on screen.
"Hm, yeah. But I don't get to do all the cool forensics stuff normally, so."
He seems to take the answer, turning his head back towards the television. Leaving you to once again trace the constellations between his freckles.
You think from here you can just make out Orion and his bow.
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪxᴛᴇᴇɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ. dbf!jack abbot/reader. age gap. explicit content. cw for the death of a parent, terminal illness, etc. 90% unedited. i'll revise one day. maybe.
Disclaimers and warnings for this chapter: First, this is all the result of brief research, and I am not a medical professional. All hospital policies and procedures and medical accuracy are not to be taken as gospel. I have an English degree and just love medical TV.
author's note: Hi guys! It's been a super chaotic week and I've been scrambling to get this written. I just moved, I'm newly single, everything is happening so fast. I can only hope that it's not terrible, because I literally finished it two seconds ago. Sorry it's not edited. I will definitely be going back and making changes when the draft is finished. Anyway! This is a lot of shameless fan service. We're telling Trinity all the things, and as promised, things get a little naughty ;) The slow burn is burning, guys. Are you ready? I am!
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"Maybe we should get a cat," Trinity says one late morning, after a night shift has run you both ragged.
"A cat," you repeat. "Why would we get a cat?"
"We could share custody so it won't get lonely," she continues, "and besides, we've basically destined ourselves to being forever alone with our jobs. Who the hell will understand that?"
"Other doctors."
She snorts derisively. "How many ER docs do you know that are happily married? Or shit, even just married?"
You think about it for a moment, sighing. "Okay, fair."
"I mean there's Abbot, sure, but..."
"He's not married," you say before you can stop yourself. "I mean, he was, but..."
"Is he divorced or something?"
"Widowed," you admit. "A few years ago."
"Huh. Well, case in point. Guy's love life is probably as dead as the rest of ours."
You don't know what to say to that without giving anything away, so you don't. Better to keep your mouth shut than admit you've been in a weird 'will they, won't they' situationship with your attending since your plane landed in Pittsburgh, dooming you to your fate.
"The attendings all seem to like you," Trinity adds. "Must be that Doctorpedia magic."
"I just show up and do my best."
"I'd hate you if you weren't obnoxiously humble," she replies.
"Oh. Well. Thanks?"
"Anytime."
You stifle a yawn. "I can't wait to be back on days. My circadian rhythm is screwed."
"And just when you think you're settled, boom! Fuck you, here's another flip-flop, intern scum!"
You groan. "Can I just skip to being an attending?"
"They'd probably let you and your giant brain get away with it. How are you doing it?"
"Too much tequila with my neighbor and crying in the shower. I had a panic attack in the ambulance bay the other night," you admit, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands.
"Wait, really?"
You nod.
"How come you didn't tell me?" she asks. "Was it after the kids came in? I noticed you took off for a minute, but I figured it was to follow up with the cops or something."
You did talk to the cops, but that part happened later. After Jack talked you down, both of you gave statements to the police, and you refreshed the chart for the boys' surgical notes obsessively until they were admitted to the PICU for close observation.
"It was a really shitty trauma," Trinity admits. "God. The whole thing... makes you wonder if you're cut out for this."
"I definitely rethought double-boarding," you confess, "but then I realized I saved the kid, and maybe he would've died if I hadn't been there--"
"Probably would've died," she corrects you. "You were by yourself, and it's not like anyone could've helped you."
You take a second to let the words sink in. In your mind, you're just a regular doctor. Hell, you're barely a doctor. You only just graduated, and you still have so much you barely understand. Jack taught you about medications and dosages just a couple of hours ago, and you might've pushed a less effective drug had he not course-corrected you.
Mistakes are common, and you've made your fair share, just trying to fit into the Pitt ecosystem without drowning. Just when you feel confident in your abilities, a new trauma comes in or a difficult patient throws you off your game. You adapt, you do what you can, and you try not to embarrass yourself.
"By the way," Trinity drawls, "I noticed Dr. Abbot's been checking you out."
You stiffen. "What? No he hasn't!" Your sputtering reply is the least convincing you've ever been, and it doesn't go unnoticed.
"No shit!" she shrieks. "you're into him!"
"I am not!"
"You are! I mean, I knew with that whole dad's friend virginity story there were some daddy issues there, but I didn't realize it was your whole archetype. Fuck, dude, you really are a DILF hunter."
"Abbot doesn't have kids."
"How do you know that?" Trinity wiggles her eyebrows, and you wish you could melt into your couch, which suddenly seems very interesting.
You suck in a breath. "Okay, if I tell you this, it cannot leave this room."
Her nose scrunches, like you've just said the sky is blue or something else that's incredibly obvious. "Sure."
"No, I mean it," you insist. "No one at the hospital can find out. This is between us, strictly."
"Cross my heart," she says, a bit more serious.
"Jack cannot find out that I told you," you warn, face hot, voice growing a little more shrill as it sharpens.
"Oh, so it's Jack now?" She teases, then grows more serious. "I got you, babe. Top secret, no hospital gossip."
You smooth your clammy hands over your scrub pants, bracing yourself before blurting in a single breath, "Jackismydad'sfriendandwe'veknowneachotherforyears."
The words register. Trinity's eyebrows shoot up, and as the math starts to add up, she gasps. "No fucking way."
You nod.
"No fucking way!" she yells. "He's the guy?"
You don't reply, which is a confession in itself.
"Tell me everything. When did you meet, when did it start, are you still fucking on the side—"
"Trinity, Jesus!" Your embarrassment disappears as the confession starts pouring out of you. For years, you've sat on the story, every moment of that summer, how you fell for him, how you think, maybe, he fell for you too. You tell her about the hike, and your ankle, and the grief you shared under the stars. You tell her everything you kept inside of you because you didn't have anyone to share it with.
You do shape up the end of the story, just for the sake of your reputation and Jack's wellbeing. Trinity can be a pitbull for the people she cares about, and if you tell her he took off on you without another word, leaving you naked and alone, she might storm into the hospital for the night shift and beat him to death with his own prosthetic leg.
By the time you're done, you didn't realize how much you'd been carrying, how you'd been dying to talk about it, like a sky holding rain for too long until the clouds split open. She listens without judgment, just letting you speak.
"Does anyone else know?" she asks when you're finished.
You shake your head. "He and my dad go way back. They're war buddies. I never wanted to ruin their friendship, and my dad and I weren't close until my mom died. I don't want to lose my dad, not when we're finally good, and Jack... Jack's a good guy. A good friend. We didn't mean for it to happen."
"Oh shit," she mutters, "you've got it bad."
"It's complicated."
"See, now it's starting to make sense," she admits. "The yearning looks, the way he touches you when he's walking you through a procedure. It's like you're magnetized and he orbits you or something."
"Is it that obvious?" You grimace.
"Not really," she answers. "But I think I get it now."
"Get what?"
"Why you don't seem interested in anyone else. I hope for your sake it works out, because I'd hate for you to get hurt."
But that's life, isn't it? You're always a second away from getting hurt, always risking your heart when you start to fall for somebody.
But is it really a start, or a continuation? Are you falling, or have you?
God, I'm a goner, you realize. "And getting involved with an attending is a catastrophically bad idea."
"The worst," Trinity agrees. "But at least you're aware of it."
You groan.
"Could be worse," she adds.
"How could it possibly be worse?"
"He's just as down bad for you as you are for him," she replies. "Maybe you'll get a happy ending after all." A beat, then, "Or maybe it'll crash and burn."
"Gee, thanks, T," you deadpan.
"Either way, your secret is safe with me." She gestures toward her mouth, miming zipping her lips and tossing the key.
"Thanks for listening to me. I haven't really been able to talk to anyone about it. Ever. I don't have many friends."
She squeezes your hand. "Me neither. I'm glad I have you." She clears her throat, armor back in place. "Now I'm gonna go the fuck to bed, before we start crying or something."
You burst out laughing. "Good night?"
"See you in seven hours for carpooling," she says, kicking the front door shut behind her.
All things considered, you sleep surprisingly well. By the time your alarm goes off, you're sluggish, but prepared for another shift. You do your yoga stretches, reciting bones and procedures, dress for the day, pull your hair back, and then make coffee for both of you. As much as you prefer the day shift for the sake of your body's sleep patterns, you'll miss nights. You'll miss Jack.
But of course, if it crashes and burns, it’ll be easier to put distance between you on opposite shifts until the wound closes. Then again, you thought you were healed, but loving Jack is proving to be an easy thing to do. A hill to die on. Whether you like it or not, he's been written into your story, and you can't seem to shake him.
Walking into the Pitt after confessing it all to Trinity is surprisingly easy. You feel better, just because you spilled your guts. Funny how that works.
The Day Shift looks absolutely awful during hand-offs. Collins, who normally is as cool as a cucumber, looks like she wants to strangle Robby, Langdon looks exhausted and keeps wincing like he's in pain, and Mohan can barely muster a smile with teeth. The beds are full, the hallways are packed, and a psych patient they call the Kraken is restrained and drugged with enough haldol to kill an elephant.
"We got a trauma rolling in," Jack calls out as he drops his backpack in Central. "Shen, you and Doctorpedia prep Trauma One, bring Santos with you. Ellis, you're covering triage. Henderson, with me in Two. Let's move, ETA in three."
The first patient comes through in two and a half minutes. He's a frat boy, his vitals unstable, screaming in agony. The moment the blanket is removed, you understand why.
"Nico Harris, twenty-one, brief LOC at the scene. Unstable pelvic fracture, probable hip dislocation, open tib-fib displacement with penetrating—"
"Holy fuck," Trinity hisses at the sight of his bone sticking out of his right leg.
Nico wails.
The paramedic continues to rattle off more information about his injuries, but you're too busy trying to calm him down in a soothing tone. "Nico, Nico, hey, we're gonna take care of you, okay? Wanna tell me how this happened?"
"Jumped into a pool," he stammers out. "M-Missed."
"Okay, okay."
"It's a bit early for frat rushing," Trinity points out.
You shrug. "Doesn't matter now."
Shen nudges you with his shoulder. "Want to run this, DP?"
You pause. "Me?"
"As opposed to who?" Shen teases. "Look, I'm right here. What do we do first?"
You steel yourself, clearing your throat as you step into your gown and snap your gloves into place. "Pain management first, then the ABCs. Gotta get him sedated for the dislocation and put that bone back into place before it cuts off his circulation."
Shen nods, pleased.
A trauma room in the Pitt is like an orchestral chamber. Every instrument is lined up to play harmoniously, and one missed note can change the trajectory of the outcome in a second. Everyone has to play in careful time, and even if you've been in dozens of traumas before, none of them are the same, and anything could change in a second, even under the best of circumstances.
You get to work. High-flow oxygen first, after the pain meds are pushed through the IV. You have him on a non-rebreather mask, flooding his system, before moving into checking pulses. As expected, his pedal pulse isn't registering, which means the bone's displacement is cutting off his circulation. Shen watches as you and Trinity hold his leg, immobilize the wound, and snap it back into place.
"There's the pulse," Trinity announces, once the splintered bone is back beneath the skin.
"Let's get the hip stabilized for a closed reduction and ultrasound on board so we can check for free fluid in the abdomen, make sure he hasn't lacerated his liver or spleen," Shen adds, stepping behind you. Together, you pop the hip back into place with Trinity providing counter-traction.
"Perfect, nice and steady," Shen says. "That's it. Fantastic work!"
Theoretically, this is the part where things slow down, and the patient is stable and moved upstairs for emergency surgery under the watchful eye of an orthopedic surgeon. They paged Park the Shark the moment the call came in over the radio, but he hasn't shown up yet.
"Page Park again," Shen orders the nurses. "Hell's he doin'? Sitting with his thumbs up his ass?" He shakes his head.
One of the other night shift med students pokes her head into the room. "We need an attending in Curtain Four."
Shen snaps off his gloves. "You got this? Give me five."
He's gone on a brisk jog over to the Curtain area, leaving you alone. You and Trinity set vigil at Nico's bedside, monitoring him closely. While most of his immediate injuries have been addressed, the ultrasound shows he might need exploratory surgery at the very least, not to mention several pins in his legs.
"CK is elevated," one of the nurses reports as the monitor kicks up. His heart is beating too fast, and his BP indicates severe pain, even though he's unconscious. All the signs are there, and you reach the conclusion before you're even conscious of it. It's his other leg, the left one, with a non-open fracture, which has quickly turned into something worse internally.
"Compartment syndrome," you realize. "Let's push fluids first, find Shen, tell him he turned. Aggressive IV fluids to maintain perfusion, I need all bandages removed and the leg raised to heart level."
You're surprised when everyone starts moving under your orders. Then again, when a patient is in distress, the right move is following the doctor while waiting for a more senior physician to take over. You wish Jack were here, but since he's not, you have to improvise.
Think, you tell yourself. Think.
"No change on the monitor. He's crashing. Scalpel!"
Trinity's eyes widen. "You're kidding."
"We need to reduce the pressure before he codes," you reply, hand shaking ever so slightly as you palpate his thigh, identifying where the pressure has started to build. Then, you make the incision. Sure enough, as blood and fluid spill onto the table, the fascia snaps open, and the muscle bulges like it's being squeezed. For a moment, the monitor spikes, and then stabilizes.
In the doorway, Shen claps slowly. "Amazing job, Doctorpedia!"
Trinity grins. "Told you it would catch on."
Shen approaches the table, inspecting your work. "Looks like a second incision isn't necessary. Park's on his way… Speak of the devil—"
Park the Shark bursts into the trauma room, scanning over the space with a grunt. "The hell did you do in here?"
"Saved your patient," Trinity deadpans.
"Control your intern, Shen," Park spits. "I don't need this shit."
"Sorry you had to come do your job," Shen says, with mock sincerity. "Get him upstairs. Doctorpedia will walk with you, give you the rundown on her amazing save," he adds, nodding his head toward the door.
You, Park, and the transport team wheel him up to the elevator. While standing closely beside Nico, you fill the surgeons in on the details of the case, specifically all the orthopedic concerns leading up to the compartment syndrome. By the time you're on the surgical floor, Park seems a bit less annoyed, which you'll consider a win. At least he doesn't look like he wants to rip your head off. They say all surgeons are sharks, anyhow, but he definitely has that look about him.
You're riding the high of the good outcome the whole way down to the Pitt again, a bit of a bounce in your step. Once you get to Central, Shen wraps an arm around you and steers you straight to Jack to present.
“My girl was a legend in there!” Shen exclaims, his hand on your shoulder as he beams proudly. “You weren’t kidding around, Abbot. She’s something.”
My girl hits the ground and lands hard, like an atomic bomb, seconds from the blast breaking the sound barrier. Jack stiffens, bracing himself, and his jaw clenches so hard a muscle ticks beneath stubbled skin. He nods once.
Shen prattles on about the trauma, how you set the open displaced fracture and performed a perfect fasciotomy that saved your patient from vitamin K build-up and eliminated his compartment syndrome. It was an objectively fantastic save.
But none of that matters, because Jack is looking at you, his features hard, mouth curled into a frown, and you’re aware, suddenly, that everything has changed.
Because sure, you’ve come to terms with the fact your mind has started to think of Jack as yours.
You just didn’t realize he’s claimed you as his, too.
"I'm going to DoorDash some emergency Dunkin, since it's a full house and a long night," Shen announces. "What do you want, DP?"
"Oh, I don't need—"
"On me," he says. "Or rather, on Abbot; his card is on the app."
Jack scowls. "You're lucky I need another attending. Otherwise, I'd push you in front of an ambulance."
"He's kidding," Shen assures you.
You're not so certain. Still, you order an iced latte, and another for Trinity too, who preens as Shen praises her performance as well. Before long, you're back in the thick of it, trying to clear the board as quickly as possible. For the next several hours of your shift, everything is a blur of stimuli and chaos, all before crashing to a halt.
You're charting at Central, the ward suddenly so quiet a pin could drop.
Trinity yawns, her coffee already wearing off. "Jesus, it's qui—"
Ellis clamps a hand over her mouth. "Nope!"
Trinity widens her eyes, pushing Ellis's arm off of her. "Jesus, what the fuck!"
"We don't use the Q word," Ellis warns, deadly serious. "It's like saying Macbeth in a theatre, okay? Dangerous. Don't do it."
"Oookay," Trinity remarks. "It's dead then."
"Hopefully it stays that way; I have charts to finish," you remark. You've been trying your best to stay on top of them, but it seems like every time you're caught up, there's another mountain of paperwork to comb through and labs to run and scans to analyze. It's exhausting, just trying to handle it all. It doesn't help that you're so aware of Jack—every room he steps out of, every look he casts across the room.
"Hey, hey, last night shift for you two!" Shen exclaims, dropping one of the tablets in the rack to discharge a patient. "You coming to Ellis's birthday bash next weekend?"
"Birthday?" Trinity asks.
"Karaoke and shots, baby!" Shen exclaims, flopping into one of the swivel chairs. "Ellis spits bars."
"And you can't sing for shit," Ellis retorts. "But you guys should come, yeah?" You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Trinity, or the blush that spreads to the apples of your best friend's cheeks. You'll definitely tease her about it later.
"I do like karaoke," Trinity admits.
"I like excuses to drink," you mumble.
Trinity grins. "That's my girl!"
"Hey, Doctorpedia!" Jack calls. "Need you in Exam Three for a consult."
"I thought we moved Exam Three," Ellis says with a frown.
You shrug. "Guess we didn't," you reply. You log off of the computer, your badge snapping back into place on the reel as you walk over. The door closes behind you, and Jack draws the curtain.
But the bed is empty.
"What's going on?" you ask. "If it's about my charts, I haven't had a chance to proofread them. I wanted to write all of them out first, then double-check."
"Your charts are perfect," he says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "That's not what I brought you in here for."
You frown, tilting your head. "I don't understand—"
"You and Shen seem friendly," he bites out.
"Uh, yeah?" You shrug. "We had coffee, and we worked through some procedures. Am I doing okay?"
"You seem really friendly," Jack quips. "You should know better than to flirt with your attendings."
You bristle. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me."
You scoff, pushing a hand through your hair. "Oh my god, I was not flirting with him. That would be inappropriate and unprofessional, and he's just friendly. That's just who he is. I'm all clear on workplace fraternizing, or what the fuck ever."
"He checked you out."
"He was watching me suture!" you exclaim. "God, Jack, are you serious right now?" The realization hits you slowly. "You're jealous."
"I am not," he seethes.
"You are!" You point at him accusatorily, feeling a bit like a schoolmarm wiggling your finger. "You're fucking jealous!"
"I have nothing to be jealous about. I'm a forty-six-year-old man."
You snort. "Come on, Jack, just admit it. You're jealous because you think I'm running around here throwing myself at attendings and you're too emotionally constipated to admit it's because you—"
He kisses you.
Hard.
The moment Jack's mouth meets yours, the world falls away at your feet. Whatever insults and accusations you were going to hurl at him die on your tongue, because he's tasting it, his slipping into your mouth as he groans like he's relieved. He fists your scrubs in one hand, pulling you onto the tips of your toes, and with the other, he threads his fingers in your hair and tilts your head back, ravaging your mouth.
The kiss at the Pirates game had sparks, yes, but this? This is a wildfire.
He pushes you against the wall, and you whimper as his mouth presses beneath your ear, suckling gently as he nips down your throat. "You're everything, baby," he grunts. "My fucking girl. My genius."
He kisses you again, deftly untying your scrub pants.
"Jack," you plead. You're not sure if you're gonna push him away or beg him for more. It doesn't matter that you're at work, in a room that doesn't lock, with just two doors and a curtain keeping you out of sight.
"Gonna remind you," he tells you. "Gonna remind you who you belong to."
Under most circumstances, you'd tell him off for being a possessive caveman, because you were raised by a grunge, man-hating feminist. You've never needed a guy, let alone tolerated one acting like he's got a claim on you, but Jack is sliding a hand down the curve of your stomach, and you can't form words.
"Keep it down, sweetheart," he chides you. "Can't let anyone hear what I'm doing to you."
He cups your wet pussy through the fabric of your panties, and you squirm into his touch, shuddering.
"You're soaked," he whispers. "All that for me?"
You nod.
"I'm gonna fuck you again," he decides. "Not here, but I will. Christ, what you do to me." His cock, stiff under his scrub pants, presses into your stomach as he kisses your neck again, his fingers shoving the fabric of your panties aside to trace your wet folds.
You moan softly, and he muffles the sound with his other hand.
"Be good," he tells you.
You nod again, frantic.
His fingers trace your clit, rubbing slow circles over the bud. You're swollen already, all of your nerves set ablaze, your pulse thrumming with the sound of his name, over and over.
Jack, Jack, Jack.
One meaty digit parts your seam, the tip of his finger dipping inside your pussy, and you cry out loudly against the palm of his hand. He just chuckles before sliding it inside you fully, hooking just enough to touch that sweet spot inside of you that makes your head feel fuzzy. Then, just when you're aching for more, he answers you with another finger inside your cunt, curling them just right as his thumb rubs slow circles on your clit.
"You feel so good. Just as beautiful as I remember," he whispers in your ear. "I'm so sorry, baby. Don't know why I ever gave this up. You're so good. So perfect. Fuck, that's it. Squeeze my fingers. Yeah. Yeah."
Your hips have started to rock against his hand, your muscles tightening as you get closer and closer to the edge of pure bliss. He keeps that steady tempo on your clit, just pressing down enough as he works his fingers inside you and fucks you with them. Just as your orgasm starts to crash over you, he scissors them, and you shatter into a thousand pieces.
You might black out for a second, as pleasure washes over you. He keeps talking you through it, muttering sweet nothings and praises into your ear until you come down. Then, he slowly withdraws his fingers from the soaked fabric of your panties and lifts them to his mouth for a greedy, generous suck.
You take a second to recover, straightening your clothes and hair like you didn't just have the most intense five minutes of your life. When Jack kisses you again, it's slow, sweet, like everything has changed.
And then his pager goes off, and he's gone.
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a blurb about reader and jack’s escapades in bed. With filming mini sex tapes being one of their favourite ways to spice things up in the bedroom.
one shots/fics
Broken Bones and Mending Hearts: ✿
when your daughter falls and hurts her leg during a soccer practice, you head to the pitt to cash in on a favour from your best friends brother, jack abbot. turns out the universe works in mysterious ways. all it took was a broken ankle, a chatty five year old, and a flirty attending to have you leaving the pitt with more then you arrived with!
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rebuilding my masterlist as my account was deleted, so if you see a fic you read before it is not stolen i am reposting! please consider following again if you did before!
summary: when your daughter falls and hurts her leg during a soccer practice, you head to the pitt to cash in on a favour from your best friends brother, jack abbot. turns out the universe works in mysterious ways. all it took was a broken ankle, a chatty five year old, and a flirty attending to have you leaving the pitt with more then you arrived with!
content/tags: fluff, jack abbot x reader, no use of y/n, lots of fluff, side characters of henderson, jack is great with kids in my universe alright?
a/n: if you think you have read this before you may have! i am reposting all my works as the tumblr gods terminated my account a few days ago :( ngl i am veeery upset over it but we keep soildering on! I am working on re uploading all my old work and new work to here over the next few days so watch this space!
Sitting in chairs in the Pitt at 8:30pm was the last place you wanted to be on a Thursday evening, but yet here you are. It's made worse by the fact that your 5-year-old daughter is squirming around your lap in pain, even after you told her for the tenth time to sit still. Look, you know you can't blame her, not after watching her fall and land so awkwardly on her ankle, after scoring a goal at her soccer practice mind you. It breaks your heart to see her in such pain, bright blue soccer uniform covered and knees covered in mud as she holds her coveted fluffy pink teddy in one hand and cradling her ankle with her other hand. The Pitt wouldn't normally be the first preference for ER, prefering somewhere closer to your house, but if you were going to cash in on a favour of VIP treatment it would be for Alice. You'd texted Jack, letting him know you were on the way, as he had said to do but there was no reply, no big deal you thought, you'd be sitting in a waiting room anywhere for hours regardless, at least in this one you have the chance to be seen by a doctor you trust and that Alice loves.
After about an hour of sitting, growing restless you place Alice in the seat and head up to check if Jack was even working this evening. Trying not to be annoying you just ask to check if he was working and if at all possible could you let him know you're here, giving them your name and Alice's. The clerk working giving you a polite but stern answer, gesturing for you to head back to your seat. Almost as if it was on cue, the ER door beeps open, with Jack shouldering the door fully open, eyes sweeping chairs looking for you and Alice. His stern appearance instantly softening as soon as he lays his eyes on the pair of you sitting in the over packed chairs. "Hey bug" he smiles at Alice as he crouches down to her level, head tilting up to you in a silent hello. Alice points at her leg, fresh tears brimming her eyes as she tells Jack all about what happened. Jack apologies, that he'd gotten stuck on a case so had only just seen your text, but you just shake your head letting him know that it was truly fine, that you really didn't mind. Swiftly ushering you in past triage, Jack takes Alice out of your arms and pops her down onto the bed, he bends down to her level, explaining to her that "I teach other doctors to be really good at their jobs like me ok? Can I bring some in here to help me look at your leg?" and with confirmation from you he steps out calling out to doctors to join him in central five.
As one of the doctor's, you think is called Dr.Henderson, starts the basic examination, calling out answers to Jack's questions the room falls into a steady rhythm. You know this is above needing a doctor like Jack in the room, but he still stands there at the head of the bed as Alice babbles away about her latest pre-k gossip to Jake, all about the kids he's heard about from his niece. Jack laughs at the dramatics of her story about how some punk, as Jack puts it, stole her favourite yellow crayon in class just yesterday, a widely over exaggerated huff as she crosses her arms, cuddling her teddy even tighter. They chat away, like old friends trading stories, as Jack expertly distracts her from the examination going on. Henderson seems to take in the conversation with a level of confusion, unsure how you all know each other, surely the rumour mill of the the Pitt wouldn't have left out that he had a secret child or something as monumental as that. The residents finish up their examination, letting you know it probably is a brake but need an x-ray to confirm. Jack asks for it to be ordered, with the stipulation that it's a VIP patient so see if they can get it bumped up.
You thank the doctors in the room and turn to Jack "seriously Jack, thank you, you're a live saver" and Alice pipes up from the bed "yeah thank you Jack! I love you!" to which you cannot help but smile at her affection for him. Jack just touches your arm giving you a soft squeeze "for you two? any time, just glad she got seen to quick-ish. Can't leave a princess like that waiting". You laugh heartily at his joke, giving him a jovial shove as you stand up to check on your daughter, pulling her into a tight hug. You can see Jack's fellow doctors stare and conspire between them, trying to figure out just who you are. You knew Jack was a pretty private man, so it doesn't surprise you fully how much or little his co-workers would know about him. Hell, apart from knowing he worked here, that he had a prosthetic leg and that he was a widower, you knew next to nothing about his personal life.
As the doctor's head out, one of them bites the bullet and asks Jack "how'd you know the little charmer in central five" to which he replies plainly "Alice? Her Mom is a friend of my sister". You tut overhearing that, a friend of his sister's was a bit of an understatement, Mary was basically your best friend, becoming as inseparable two grown women who were mothers can be in this day and age, seen as your kids were the best of friends. You'd met Jack at a birthday party for his niece, running over over to him to pull Alice away from him and apologising profusely for Alice's less than polite staring at his leg, and the rest was history. Whenever you were over at his sisters for a playdates with your daughter, Jack was calling by. He'd always stop off to see his favourite niece and as she was nearly always there, Alice, he'd eat the imaginary afternoon tea or fell easily into their pranks, causing the girls to fall into fits of laughter. Jack quickly became a staple of your Saturday afternoon rituals of playdates and coffee, always staying for a cup to have a check in with his sister. He never overstayed his welcome in the sacred space that was your Mom weekly catch up, but Jack always put in the effort to learn about you and Alice. And you couldn't lie to yourself, it was attractive, how much he took interest in you and your daughter's lives as an extension of his sisters.
There were times that seeing him interact with Alice made your heart skip, his willingness to entertain her even though he had zero obligation to do so. You and Mary had talked about you getting back out there, but in all honesty, you knew it wasn't a priority, telling her just as much that "I have Alice to focus on, I have my work, m' not going to just let anyone into our lives, y'know, I can't expect some random man to just slot in and be dependable and what I want." sipping your coffee you looked out into the garden, to see the girls hopping off the swing set, running over to Jack who was just arriving, slipping in the back garden gate to see the girls first. He looked good as always, kneeling down to welcome the girls into a big bear hug. You could feel Mary's eyes on you from a mile away, turning back to look at her, with one eyebrow raise, looking scarily like her brother, she held her coffee cup up to her mouth, half hiding a smirk as she sipped, embarrassment had creeped up your neck as you rolled your eyes, switching the conversation away from your dating life and far away from Jack Abbot.
With an x-ray confirming the break, you wait for a doctor to come back to start applying the cast and send you on your way. Alice starts to wine on the bed, fustriated and tired with the whole ordeal, you make the expert decision that snacks are the only remedy for the situation. Heading out to the vending machine to grab you both a snack you pass by central and cannot help but over hear that you might be the centre of tonight's gossip in the Pitt. Dr. Henderson is leaning over the counter talking to Ellis and Shen hushed tones of "I don't know man, Abbot and the Mom in central five have got to have some history" "Abbot has game, who would have thought, she;s gorgeous" and "I don't know about you guys but if he got loved up again it might get him off our ass's a bit". A heat rushes to your face, you pretend you don't hear as you walk buy, extra focused on getting a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, the vending machine being extra interesting as Jack calls his team to task.
Back at central five, Jack reappears with Henderson by his side, ready to apply the cast. Asking Alice where you are she sweetly lets him know where you're gone, smiling up at him excitedly telling him that you're buying her a treat. Pulling over a swivel stool, Jack sits at the head of the bed, chatting again to Alice while they wait for you to come back. Jack knows Alice loves him, he also knows you're wary of how attached she can get to people in your lives. So he makes extra effort to make sure Alice isn't scared, offering to answer any or all of the questions she might have, not knowing what a can of worms he was opening. Sitting beside Alice, he lets Henderson take the lead on prepping for the cast. Full of questions, like any other five-year-old, Alice looks to Jack for reassurance questions fall from her mouth at lighting speed
"Jack does this mean I can't play soccer ever again"
"No bug, just for a while, you'll be back playing in no time, just gotta be careful"
"Jack, can I play catch?"
"Not right now Alice, but you can play loads of other games, y' can still make afternoon tea, know that's your favourite"
Alice smiles enthusiastically, looking towards Henderson, she asks questions about what he's doing with all sincerity, she asks questions about what he was doing with the plaster, why does he need scissors, what colour can he make the cast, every detail of the setting and cast building process she has covered. Jack looks quickly at his watch, wondering just where you'd gotten to, waiting for your consent to start on putting Alice in a cast. A minute of silence passes, as Alice looks intently at Jack as if she is really trying to understand something profound, studying his micro expressions, she sits up slightly in the bed as if she's about to impart some profound wisdom onto him. Letting out a huff she turns to face his directly asking "Jack, Mommy called you a fox or something when she was talkin' to Mary, what does that mean?". Henderson chokes back a laugh in surprise of your daughters confession, staring over at Jack, the pure amusement on his face thinly veiled by professionalism.
Jack just stares back at Alice, a laugh escaping him before he can really recalibrate and process what she'd just said. Alice just stares back awaiting his answer, Jack laughs again before answering as impartially as he can "oh bug, I don't know if you should be listening to their conversations" but Alice is insistent, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms "but what does it mean". Staring over at Henderson, Jack shoots him a clear non-verbal look of if this spreads to outside this room you are dead before he answers her "ah, I guess it kinda means she thinks I'm handsome, which is very kind of your Mom to say, she's very pretty too, but don't be goin' around calling people that ok, bug?". Alice hums in response, seemingly satisfied with his answer before settling back down on the bed. Jack stares at the ceiling, embarrassment flooding through his body, secretly willing for you to return as soon as you can to change the subject and give Henderson a reason to wipe his less than professional smirk off of his face. But one look over and the pair of them are laughing, Alice laughing in tow without really knowing why.
Returning back to central five, you pull back the curtain and to see a scene of Alice, Jack and Henderson laughing together, as if the pain in her leg doesn't exist at all. As you come back into the room, the laugher puts you at ease, any worry you had about this being a bad experience for Alice leaves your body. Laughing lightly at them you join back in on the conversation "what's so funny in here". Before Henderson or Jack can do some damage control Alice pipes up from the bed, hiding her face behind her fluffy teddy she's been holding onto for dear life "Mommy! Mommy! Jack said you were pretty!" and with that she falls apart into another fit of laughter, Jack staring at the ceiling muttering "jesus christ". You stare over at Jack, head flicking to the side lips curling upwards in a barely there smirk "really?" without missing a beat, Jack fires back, full of amusement "missing a lot of context there kid". Henderson, like an angel sent from heaven, promptly suggest that you all should get the show on the road and get this little girl into a cast so she can get her home to bed as she yawns slipping further down the hospital bed.
Alice's leg is freshly adorned with a bright pink cast, hobbling out of the ER room on her crutches, Jack insisting on walking the pair out to your car, of course it was all part of the VIP Pitt visit package. As you strap Alice into her car seat, Jack leans against the car arms crossed as he checks that you have everything you need insisting that you text him whenever if you have any questions. Closing the car door, you turn to Jack "thank you Jack, really, I was so worried her first visit to hospital would scare her but" he cuts you off shaking his head, smiling "It's nothin' seriously, just make sure to mention the silver fox doctor in your evaluation form ok?" Jack hits you with this, shit eating grin plastered across his face. Warmth completely reddening your face, you practically spit out the water you were drinking eyes wide and voice laced with panic "what - why the fuck would you say that?". Jack chuckles, head tilting upwards, staring down at you clearly trying to decide wether he should leave you squirming in the discomfort for the fun of it or put you out of your misery "let's just say, Alice hears everything".
Standing at the side of your car, your rendered speechless, throwing your hands up to your face, letting out a groan. "Don't worry sweetheart, I found it endearing, don't love that you're telling my sister that I'm a silver fox, but endearing all the same", you peak out from behind your hands, mumbling "look, there's context missing from that conversation -" you're cut off by Jack placing a hand on your shoulder, "it's ok sweetheart, if it makes it any better, Alice wasn't lying, I do think you're gorgeous" unable to hold back a smart response "she said pretty, not gorgeous". Jack lets out a gruff "semantics" before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on your cheek. The sensation of his lips against your skin feels like fireworks all around your body, feeling like for the first time in a long time that things actually make sense. Ever aware of your daughter in the car, you lean into him giving Jack a tight hug, trying to play off the weight the relatively innocent kiss holds.
Before you can fully make up your mind on how you feel about this all, you're torn away from your thoughts, a little fit of giggles surfacing from inside the car. You and Jack laugh into each other's shoulders, you pull back reluctantly, coyness flooding your body as you look at him "thank you Jack, I'll urm, text you?" smiling down at you Jack leans against the car once more, caging you in slightly against it, a deep sigh slipping from him "Oh I'll be waitin'". And with that, you cross around the back of your car, with Jack holding open your car door you slip in; Jack cranes his neck into the car looking towards Alice in the back waving to her "bye bug, nice to see you" she waves and tells him goodbye mid-yawn. Pulling him head out of the car, Jack stands holding the door ajar, a tilt of his head and a brow raised he looks at you intensely "like I said, I'll be waitin'", shaking your head and a murmur of for sure later, you pull the door close, buckle your seat belt and click on the engine. Looking in the mirror to reverse you catch Alice's eyes as she smirks at you, you cut her off before she can comment "not one word out of you missy" but you know there's no threat behind the words as you smile back at her. Driving away, smiling to yourself, you think about the fact that this might have been the best hospital visit ever.
a/n: if you do see this and use to follow me i'd really appreciate a refollow! i am very disheartened abt my old acc being deleted, but we persevere, as always reblogs, likes and comments are always always appreciated!
Read "The Long Way Home" on Archive of Our Own here.
⚚✈︎ Pairing: Dr Jack Abbot x Female Reader
⚚✈︎ Tags: 18+ SMUT MDNI, age gap, reader is a flight attendant (based on that one comment he said in season 2), jack abbot thinks youre hot af, fluff, angst, eventual smut, masturbation (jack maturbates to u), PinV, hurt/comfort, humour, jealousy, pet names, possessive behaviour, size kink, creampie, rough sex, breeding, more tags will be added later
⚚✈︎ Summary:
It started with a medical emergency at thirty thousand feet, a stolen notebook, and a risque photograph. In which Dr. Jack Abbot meets a pretty flight attendant, accidentally stole her things, and becomes perhaps a little too invested in returning it.
⚚✈︎ Status: ONGOING (new chapter every weekend)
⚚✈︎ Total Word Count: TBD
AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist
CHAPTER ONE: THE RESCUE 🌶
CHAPTER TWO: DEPARTURE
CHAPTER THREE: A CHANGE IN WEATHER
CHAPTER FOUR: TEMPORARY LIVING
CHAPTER FIVE: MISSED CALLS 🌶
CHAPTER SIX: SLOW ROUTINE 🌶
CHAPTER SEVEN: EVE OF PARTING 🌶
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM🌶
