Synopsis: When Jack freaks out over your little stunt to get his attention, you both finally get the chance to clear the air.
Warnings: mentions of minor character death, swearing, mentions of patient violence (all references to past events)
A/n: the thrilling conclusion to a series that somehow blossomed from a throwaway one shot idea I had for funsies while I was hitting a wall in other fics! Lolll but seriously I hope you all enjoy this, these two were so fun to write for! Onto the next
masterlist!
——
“How are you doing? You okay? Have you eaten?”
Lani, the MS3 that’s been tailing you anxiously since Robby sic’ed her sparkly brown eyes and perfect jet-black French braids on you at 6:52 this morning blinks slowly at you, before nodding her head vigorously.
“Yeah! Yeah I’m good,” she says. “Dr. Robinavitch gave me a protein bar an hour ago.”
You raise your eyebrows expectantly, flicking your eyes toward the nurses’ station like he might have heard that. Lani goes a shade paler.
“Robby!” she says. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” you laugh, hands on your hips as you roll your neck out. “Sorry if it’s been a rough one today. I swear, the first day of a new rotation is always like a curse in this place.”
She laughs nervously, still eyeing you with caution.
The shifts blur together more and more these days, so nothing that could be causing her hesitation sticks out in your mind. You’d think the night shift would be more disorienting, the late hours bleeding together, your distressed circadian rhythm never fully adjusting.
But you find you’ve actually found less comfort in the daylight, existing with the rest of the world and all of its demands.
“What’s up?” you ask Lani, head tilted in concern, wondering if something had slipped under the radar or you’d come across distracted at some point today.
“Nothing. Nothing,” she says, shaking her head again. Then she pauses. “Well. So it’s just… so it’s not always like this, then?”
The laugh that’s bubbling up in your throat dies promptly when a familiar figure appears in your line of sight.
His shoulders were tight underneath his navy blue t-shirt, tucked into his belted camo pants — god, you swear you saw Jack in his fatigues more than his scrubs these days.
He’s leaning over the nurses’ station, talking in hushes with Robby. When he tilts his head in your direction, greeting you with tired, halfway apologetic smile, you suppress a sigh. Because then Jack is stalking toward you with an unknown purpose before you can decide to run or hide or both, barely sparing Robby a second glance.
He wastes no time once he’s in your vicinity, greeting you lowly with your formal title, nodding politely at Lani when he realizes she’s there.
“Can I speak with you?” he asks.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, feeling off-kilter, the slew of barely answered texts and missed calls that has been weighing down the phone in your back pocket now pressing down on your chest when you see him for the first time in days.
He doesn’t say anything in return, looking at you in expectation. You feel Lani’s eyes shifting between the two of you, and you try not to wither under the pressure, resulting to old tactics.
“Where’s the rest of the troop today?”
“I really need a word,” he remarks, no time for your attempt at sass, as half-hearted as the ‘fine, hope you’re okay too’ you responded with when he asked how you were the day after Reseda died.
You ignore him. “This is a new MS3, Lani. It’s her first day.”
“Uh… hi,” he says, smile strained, peeling his eyes from you for less than a second, giving her exactly enough attention to be considered courteous before he’s looking back at you.
“You’re Dr. Abbot?” she asks, catching his attention again.
“Night shift senior attending. How are you?” he forces out, as polite as he can muster, even with exasperation for the interaction clearly written all over his face. “Listen—”
“Is he the one Santos was telling me about?” Lani says suddenly, her eyes starry again as they flit between the two of you. “The one who did a chest tube under active fire? Didn’t you get shot?”
“Shot at.”
You lock gazes with Jack when you both say it at the same time, before rolling your eyes and looking away again.
Lani is still glancing between the two of you in wonder, like she can’t even begin to figure this place out.
“Lani, would you mind if I stole her for a moment?” Jack asks, still looking at you. “Santos always needs an extra set of hands.”
She nods, not seeming keen to defy an attending on her first day — but still looking suspicious. You wave her off gratefully. “Go. I’ll come get you in a few.”
“What rooms are free?” Jack asks as soon as she’s gone, standing up on his toes to search around the place.
You pop your hip, your tablet falling to your side. “Jack, how am I supposed to know that?”
He looks back down at you, pleading. “I really need to talk to you, and I don’t wanna do it out here.”
Jack’s silvery curls are pressed flat to his head in a tell-tale sign that he’s been sweating it out all day in a helmet. He looks exhausted, ragged, like he’s been lying awake to the police scanner again, without you there to fumble for its off switch sleepily before kissing him back to sleep. You know from snooping over Robby’s shoulder to look at the schedule on his computer earlier today that Jack’s back on in only a few hours.
And the way his eyebrows go from a hard, flattened line to being screwed up his forehead helplessly hits you somewhere deep beneath your ribs.
“I think Mohan just discharged one of the West rooms,” you say softly, knowing that’s where you’ll be afforded the most privacy a place like the Pitt can offer. You turn, not waiting for him to follow. “C’mon.”
And he does, of course he does — you feel the heat of him at your back as you both pass the Central rooms, dodging wayward gurneys, gossipy nurses and prying residents. Even Robby looks up from where he’s supervising Javadi as you both pass him by in lockstep, but he doesn’t say anything.
West 14 is empty. You don’t have time to point it out to Jack before he’s got a firm hand splayed over the small of your back, reaching around you to open the door with his other and guiding you through it quickly.
You round on him once the door is closed, almost bumping into his chest he was standing that close. “Hey, you can’t just—”
He pushes you back, away from the lack of discretion provided by the windows, and closes the curtain abruptly, all without breaking eye contact.
When he speaks, it’s frustrated. “Tell me Blackwell was lying.”
You narrow your eyes, confused. “What?”
“Say it,” Jack demands. “Tell me he was wrong.”
You almost scoff. “Sorry. Who the fuck is Blackwell?”
“My SWAT sergeant.”
Realization unfurls your brow. Your mouth dries out and you almost feel queasy, taking a step back from him, guilt surely written all over your face.
It happened before Reseda.
While Jack had been busy helping establish a treatment plan for whoever on his squad was currently in one of the North rooms mid-heatstroke, you’d studied the rest of them where they all waited just outside. An imposing presence in the ED, loitering with helmets under their arms, speaking and laughing loudly in a place filled with sadness and frustration. Sometimes it was a welcome change, but most days it pissed you off.
It didn’t take long to surmise who was running the show, and it took even less time to persuade him away. A light touch to his bicep and a polite smile as you apologized for interrupting, and Blackwell was happy to speak to you about TEMS. It mainly went in one ear and out the other, as you couldn’t help but keep checking over his shoulder to see if Jack had noticed — or just to see him him at all, really, cheeks flushed and barking out orders in that familiar, competent-without-being-bossy way that you hadn’t seen for yourself in weeks.
Jack says your name, snapping you back to the present, to his heaving chest and tight voice, to the anxiety in his face and his hands that can’t settle, not at his sides but not reaching out for you — balling in fists or running through those grown-out curls.
You’re temporarily distracted, noting how long his hair has gotten. Something you’d enjoy if you didn’t take it as a sign of how out of sorts he must be if he’s missed his tri-weekly haircut.
“For the love of god, baby, tell me you aren’t actually considering tactical medicine,” he says. “Are you punishing me?”
Your eyes flit back to his face, ignoring his hair again as your realization seeps in.
“No,” you say quietly, backing up until you’re leaning against the bed.
“Then what?” he asks, not missing a step in going with you, bending at the waist to meet your eyes dead-on.
You shake your head, guilt wrapping around your throat again. “I swear I totally forgot that I even—”
“Forgot what?” he interrupts, daring you to admit the truth he hadn’t thought possible when he dragged you away from your med student.
You sigh. “I talked to him once, a while back, when you all came in. I don’t know, it was…”
Jack takes a beat at your confirmation, sighing a rough push of air, tipping his head back up at the ceiling like it will give him answers to why he decided to get involved with you in the first place.
You’d subconsciously dropped the idea completely after Reseda had literally died on your table with Jack right at your side watching on, panicked orders and shallow breaths in your ear, the rest of his squad at the windows to Trauma 2.
And it embarrassed you how childish it all seemed in retrospect. You wonder now if the entire rouse might actually have just served to prove Jack right — that you did let emotions cloud your decisions, in a way that could make you the unreliable doctor he’d made you worried that you were.
“It was stupid,” you say lamely, feeling your words start to thicken in a frightening way. “I was still mad at you. It wasn’t serious.”
“It’s not serious,” he says definitively, present tense. “You’re not serious, right?”
“No, Jack. It wasn’t. I’m not.”
“You promise?”
You frown, titling your head to the side. “It’d be pretty hypocritical of me to yell in your face about it and then become a joiner.”
He doesn’t say anything. Like he still doesn’t believe you.
“You know I’d never,” you assure.
One last suspicious look, then his shoulders finally drop as he sighs, scrubbing both of his hands over his face.
He huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Shit. You really had me going.”
“Got you,” you say ineffectually.
“So you were punishing me,” he says.
You shrug.
“It’s scary, right? Picturing someone you care about in those situations,” you say, your voice feeble because you know it’s not fair. “You flipped your lid any time I tried to take on a male patient in the last month, so I just…”
“What were you gonna do? Show up for a raid one day just to prove a point?”
“I don’t know,” you say, scrunching your face up. “Maybe? Probably not.”
He laughs again, like he means it this time, some of the tension starting to seep from the room.
“You’re kind of insane,” he says, his voice caramelizing the words in a contradictory fondness.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t all of my patient satisfaction scores say so?”
His smile slips at your self-deprecation. “They don’t. You saw Mason’s, didn’t you?”
He takes a step toward you just as the door opens, a whoosh of air blowing the curtain slightly, the sounds of the ER entering the room.
“I need her back, Jack,” comes Robby’s voice. “You get one more minute unless you’re staying to help out.”
Your face heats, and the door closes again before either of you can respond.
“I should go,” you say, standing up straight, face-to-chest with him again.
He’s unmoving, his next plea pointless, earnest as could be anyway, “Wait. Just… wait.”
You’re completely still.
His hand finds the back of your neck, and you’re even more rooted to the spot, tilting your head up when his thumb encourages your jawbone with light brushes.
“Hi,” Jack says lowly, almost a whisper.
“Hi,” you answer, keenly aware of your stomach brushing his belt buckle.
“There’s a lot I still have to say,” he says, his eyes all over your face, flicking to your lips more times than is appropriate for West 14. “But I’m going crazy without you.”
Same, you think. Me too, same, me as well, ditto. I miss you. I lo—
“Is this an inappropriate time to say I was right about you growing at your hair?”
His laugh rumbles against your chest, mirth in his eyes that you’re sure matches your own.
“I don’t care what’s appropriate,” he says, shaking his head, that trademark cockiness back. “Never been interested in it.”
Heat rushes back to your cheeks, and he leans forward to kiss your forehead, his familiar scent overwhelming your senses, pushing those stubborn tears right back to your waterline.
“I’ve gotta let you go before Robby kills me,” he says. His thumb presses right to the corner of your eye, catching a tear before it can fall. “But can we talk later?”
You exhale, blinking your eyes rapidly.
“I’m just really tired of having this fight, Jack,” you whisper.
He pulls back. “I think it’s one worth having. Don’t you?”
You feel yourself nodding.
“Come find me at handoff?” you ask.
“I’ll always find you,” he says, and you blink your eyes more, before you do something embarrassing like actually starting to cry in the arms of your attending-slash-situationship in the middle of a patient room during your shift.
Jack takes pity.
“Go get back out there, yeah?” he croons, more mischief seeping into his tone, “Poor Lani’s probably up a creek.”
You nod, gathering yourself after such a brief, charged interaction flipped your shift upside down once again, but you feel a smile fight its way onto your face. “You really came in just for this?”
He shrugs, sighing in that way that lets you know he has no idea what to do with you. But you think he wants to keep doing it anyway, especially when he tips your head back just so. You know you do.
“Straight from the station,” he murmurs, his breath fanning across your lips. Crowding every one of your senses but still so utterly cautious, holding himself back, waiting instead for you to take what you want, just like he had been when this all started.
So you do. Because you know even if you haven’t ironed it all out that he’s still a soft place to land, and you surge forward, slowing once your lips connect, unable to help the wistful noise you let out as it feels like Jack is pouring a million sorries right into you — his shadowy beard scraping them into your skin, his fingers pressing them into your jaw and your hip, the beats of his heart echoing them into your own.
“Mm,” he hums as he pulls back, kissing your cheek. His forehead resting on yours, his breathing now as shallow as your own. “We’ll talk more later?”
You nod your head, easing out of his hold, shivering when his ring trails along the back of your neck.
“Yeah we will. You’re not getting off that easy,” you remind him. You take him in again, and even the new energy in his eyes can’t hide the exhaustion. “Go home and get some sleep, Jack.”
He shakes his head, leaning forward to wipe a thumb across your lips like it’ll be any less obvious what the two of you were getting up to in here. Then he draws the curtain, letting you duck under his arm. “Now I definitely won’t be able to.”
—
“How’re you doing, kid? My shift killed you yet?”
Tiredness curls around Robby’s words, like it often does regardless of whether he’s 12 minutes into a shift or 12 hours. You’re — for once in your life — not grateful it’s the latter. The clock ticking closer and closer to 7pm elicits butterflies with heavy wings in your stomach this time, knowing Jack should be arriving for handoff anytime now.
For now, you deposit your badge and favorite pen into your bag before looking up at his best friend, who hovers at your work station, making no move to get out of here on time.
“Not yet. It’s good. At least, I think it’s good. I should be asking you,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder, crossing your arms.
Robby laughs.
“You’d know if it weren’t. Trust me. You’re killing it,” he says, then tilts his head to the side, studying you with a wry smile. “But it sure seems like night shift wants you back.”
Butterflies activated again, you give Robby a half-smile. “We’ll see.”
His eyes flick up over your shoulder, out toward the ambulance bay. He nods his head. “Maybe sooner than you think.”
When you turn your head, you aren’t surprised to see Jack’s waiting at the door. But he’s not storming in with that quiet sense of authority, donning his white undershirt and black scrubs, and he doesn’t have his bag. Just a smile for you, a returned nod for Robby, wearing a gray t-shirt you know to be soft to the touch and a pair of jeans.
You turn back to Robby. “He’s not on tonight?”
Robby shakes his head slowly, and you realize now he’s not packing up with you for a reason. “He called in a favor. I’m covering until Al-Hashimi comes in.”
“He what?”
“Don’t say I never did anything for you. He only gets a favor from me once a year, y’know.”
You turn back to Jack, waiting patiently, one hand tucked into his pocket and the other holding something you can’t make out. He nods at one of the security guys on his way to clock in for the night, but then he’s right back to you.
You’d pictured a controlled, time-restricted chat before night shift pulled him under for the rest of the day. Maybe a bus ride home with a more exciting playlist than usual blaring in your ears this time, a call to your sister when you got home. Convincing Javadi to split a bottle of wine after her date with Matteo. A good night text you’d actually return.
You don’t know what to do with the promise of an entire night with Jack, but your body does, your feet moving you toward him, waving a hand in dismissal at your department chief as he reminds you that you still clock in at 7am tomorrow morning — no favors to be found.
“S’that a peace offering?” you ask, spotting a yellow can of prebiotic soda in one of his hands, your go-to post-shift treat and he knows it.
“Got enough of them left in my fridge,” he shrugs as you stop before him, seemingly unconcerned that anyone paying attention might deduce the senior night shift attending is very much here on his night (newly) off to for the sole purpose of collecting a senior resident. “Figured you might want one.”
“I’ll take them all if you want,” you say, taking it from him. The can of apple-flavored soda suddenly seems like it will go down like acid as you picture him placing a box of your things in your locker for you to find during day shift, and you tuck it into your bag instead.
“I actually drank them all,” he admits after a moment. “I got that one on my way in.”
You feel your eyebrows shoot up, huffing a scoff against the can. “You didn’t even like these.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “You left them behind and they were taking up space. And I did pay for them.”
You’d been complaining about how Jack didn’t have any fun drinks in his fridge for days, and he’d gesture toward his fully stocked bar cart, complete with a wine rack, in exasperation and complain about having to stop at Whole Foods everyday on the way home from shift just so you could get something suitable. Then he’d purse his lips in disgust when he’d try it in the car later, muttering “gimme that” and making you cackle while he’d roll down the window to pretend to spit it out.
Until you’d finished a double one day and came home to an entire case stocked next to his stupid beers and carrot juice. He’d shrugged when you noticed, but his neck turned pink when your lips were pressing into it shortly after, teasing him because he liiikes you.
“By all means,” you say. “I bet you’ve been using the La Roche-Posay I left in your shower, too.”
“Sorry,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “The what?”
You can’t help but laugh, even if your chest still feels tight with anxiety. “Never mind.”
A few beats of silence pass between you two, but Jack doesn’t break your gaze this time. Not even as gurneys go by and prying eyes come and go.
“You need a ride?” he finally asks. When you nod, he steps out of the way for you to head out the ambulance bay doors first. You don’t make it three steps before he tugs at your bag, and you let him slip it off your arm gratefully as you head to the parking deck.
“I’ve never really known how to have conversations like this,” Jack starts, your pace slowing to match his on the asphalt.
“Conversations like what?”
“The hard ones,” he answers, his eyes downcast when you turn to search his profile. His bag over your shoulder now, he fiddles with the band around his ring finger, twisting it around the way you’ve seen him do a million times before. “My wife. She, uh… she always came after me first.”
Your hand flexes at your side, yearning for his.
“And she’s…” you trail off, wondering how to word it. Jack talked about his wife so rarely, and never about you in the same breath. “That’s the last time you…?”
“No one since. No one serious since,” Jack confirms, leaving his band alone, his hands dropping to his sides.
When you arrive at the deck, his hand finds your back, gently guiding you toward where he’d parked.
“I’m not used to having anyone looking out for me anymore,” he continues, then clicks his tongue. “Well, besides Robby, but he’s his own fucking mess these days and I’ve been off the hook.”
That makes you laugh, turning your head up at him, and Jack smiles.
“And I’m,” he shakes his head, biting down on his bottom lip, “apparently really not used to looking out for anyone.”
He cuts his eyes back toward you when you laugh again. “What?”
You naturally slow to a stop as his truck comes into view, Jack’s presence at your side in front of the passenger door, carrying your bag achingly familiar even though it’s sunset, and the light colors him differently than it does in the morning, pink hues in the sky framing those curls — still overgrown, but slightly better kept at the moment as he eyes you with expectation.
“Jack, that’s like — that’s all you do. All you do is look out for people,” you say. “Every doctor and nurse and staff member in there, I’m sure everyone at SWAT. I mean — Robby…”
You trail off, embarrassed suddenly.
“And now you,” he finishes easily.
You cross your arms, sheepish, cheeks warm once again, even if you’re not susprised.
“It’s different with you,” he says. “You know it is. That’s what I’m trying to get at. It’s…”
Jack opens his back door, tossing your bag in and shutting it again, then tucks his hands into his pockets.
“It wasn’t until you — until I saw that guy deck you, and then I got hurt, and we started doing this. I hate,” his voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I hate that that’s what it took, baby. And I hate how I reacted on shift.”
You bring your body closer to his, grabbing for his hand, dragging him into your arms. “Jack.”
“Don’t tell me it’s okay. It’s not,” he says into your hair, arms constricting around your waist. “I wasn’t benching you because you couldn’t handle it. I was benching you because I couldn’t handle it.”
He pulls back, his eyes looking for yours and his hands not moving from your body.
“You have to know that. You know that right?” he says, touching your face. “You give excellent care.”
Then he tilts his head side to side, muttering, “I mean. A few wonky reviews here and there, but you don’t usually deserve it.”
He winces, bending forward slightly when you dig your fingers into his side in retaliation for that comment. And he laughs, almost letting you out of his hold as your attempt feebly to push away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, arms tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets you, a kiss to your cheek. “If you felt like I doubted your medicine, because I didn’t. And I don’t. Not for a second.”
“It isn’t about that.”
“No?”
“No. Maybe a little. But not entirely,” you say. “I mostly hated that you looked at me like I was weak. Like I couldn’t handle shit.”
“You’re not weak,” he says, shaking his head. “And you can handle anything. Way more than me when I was a resident.”
“Stop it.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I admire you so much.”
Your arms sneak around his waist, and you rest your head on his chest in acceptance of his apology, his shirt as soft as you’d remembered under your cheek.
“Hey,” he says, cheek resting on your head. “You okay?”
Relieved tears leak from your eyes, no doubt soaking through his shirt — acceptance of someone you so upheld in both your personal and professional life, now, reaffirming his trust in you. “Yeah. Could you take me home?”
His thumb strokes behind your ear, drawing a line across your jaw, coming to press down on your lip. There’s no scar anymore, but he’ll always remember right where it was.
“Always, baby.”
Jack tucks you into his truck before getting in on the driver’s side, the muscle memory of watching him back out, a hand on your seat, his eyes meeting yours before he puts the car back in drive, so achingly familiar it’s like you feel pounds lighter after watching him do it.
But you and Jack live in the same direction, and you frown when he goes out the wrong parking lot exit.
“Did you somehow forget the drive to your own place?”
“We’re going to mine?” he asks.
You blink, embarrassed suddenly. “Aren’t we?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Didn’t want to assume.”
You roll your eyes affectionately, shifting down to kick your feet up on his dash. “Well you’re still going the wrong way.”
“Detour,” Jack says easily, smiling over at you. “Just dropping something off. Then we’ll go to mine, don’t worry.”
You frown, looking back out the window, tree-lined streets soaked in sunset passing by. It’s silent the rest of the way except for the music coming from your phone, your Bluetooth connection to Jack’s truck’s radio syncing back immediately.
You furrow your eyebrows when you see the police station come into view, and Jack pulls over to park across the street from it.
“I told you I wasn’t serious,” you joke, confused nonetheless. “Don’t make me sign up. You know I’m too cute for that helmet.”
He smiles half-heartedly, and his hand gathers yours. He presses a kiss into your knuckles, stealing your breath for a minute.
“We’re here to turn my gear in.”
“What?”
He nods to the backseat. “It’s all there.”
You turn, unbuckling your belt as you catch sight of his bags. You get up on your knees, seeing his uniform, his helmet, his belt — all of his issued gear is in the backseat and you hadn’t even noticed until right now.
“Jack…” you say, turning back to him, resting on your haunches. “I don’t want you to quit. I never wanted you to quit.”
“I want to,” he says. “I want this. I want us to work.”
You reach your hand out for him and his mouth curves again, helping you up over the console, into his lap, his other hand digging into your side as your knees press into the leather of his driver’s seat.
“Jack. You don’t have to,” you say, your hands dropping to his shoulders when you’re settled, your right hand placed where the wound had healed weeks ago. “Don’t you like doing it?”
He’s still as he contemplates, except for his hands that move from your waist and down your thighs, back up again, and you don’t know who he’s soothing. He takes a deep breath. “I’m tired of watching people I care about get hurt. I see enough of it as it is. I can find another hobby.”
“Oh, Jack,” you say, leaning forward, letting his arms encircle you, your hand finding the curls at the back of his head.
“Even picturing you out there, baby…”
You pull away, searching his face. “But that’s not real. This is entirely up to you, Jack.”
He glances out the window toward the station, back to you, lip bitten in contemplation. “Even if you don’t like it? Even if you’ll worry about me if I do stay?”
“Yeah, Jack,” you say, shrugging. “I mean, duh, I’ll be worried, but…”
“You make that look so easy.”
You lean forward, your lips pressing into his rough cheek. He didn’t shave in the few hours since he’d left the ED, but you don’t mind.
“Bit of a learning curve, but you got there in the end, babe.” Another kiss, then turning his face to yours, sealing your mouth over his, a noise of surprise leaving his throat before you’re pulling away again. “Plus you’re, like, stupid hot in that uniform. Don’t make me run off with Bosco to get my fix.”
Jack’s mouth falls open with a strangled sound of indignation and you laugh hard, accidentally honking his truck’s horn when your back slams into the steering wheel.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, a hand on your back. “You’re trouble.”
”So I’ve been told,” you hum, your hands finding his chest. “Or was it… risky?”
Jack rests his head back on the head rest, hands rubbing over your thighs, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. “One worth taking.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Sometimes we do things that scare us, right?”
Your heart pounds, like it might break a rib if he keeps talking to you like this.
“Yeah,” you breathe, finding his lips again, until his hands on your hips push you back.
“Okay,” he says. “Hop off before I give the police department a reason to write up another report we both have to sign.”
“No more reports. Or forms,” you say, climbing out of his lap reluctantly, still leaning over to kiss him over the center console until he turns away. You forgot how intoxicating he could be.
“Well. Maybe one more,” he says.
Your eyebrows knit together. “What?”
Jack is silent as he turns the ignition over and puts the truck back into drive, smoothly pulling back onto the road and letting a few blocks go by as you just stare at his profile.
“Probably one more form that says I shouldn’t be evaluating you in a clinical sense until your residency is over,” he says. “Given my conflict of interest.”
“Really?”
“We can talk about it,” he says. “We’ve got all night.”
man sometimes friendship really is just "I saw this and knew it would give you psychic damage. please respond with agony" and then they do. and it's great
It’s embarrassing enough being seen for food poisoning in your place of work before the attending on shift decides to make you his priority for the night. (4.2k)
please — Jack Abbot x reader
Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt. (10.3k)
compromise — Jack Abbot x reader
Your attending is worried your mouth is putting you in unnecessary danger with testy patients, which you find ironic coming from a man who gets shot at as a side gig. (3.1k)
part 2: double down Jack’s tact for handling your tendency to take on the most volatile patients in the hospital is muddled slightly by your habit of ending up in his bed after a shift. (4.2k)
part 3: rein me in You switch to day shift after your argument with Jack, but another visit to the ED from his SWAT unit puts him right back in your path. (4.4k)
part 4: you were right When Jack freaks out over your little stunt to get his attention, you both finally get the chance to clear the air. (5.3k)
lucky — Jack Abbot x reader
It’s your first birthday since you started dating Jack, and he pulls out all the stops. (2.2k)
Synopsis: It’s your first birthday since you started dating Jack, and he pulls out all the stops.
Warnings: a lil suggestive, lots of references to drinking
A/n: came to me in a vision (aka when I was hungover and disassociating watching love island after my own birthday this weekend)
—
You wake to your head pounding, your brain throbbing angrily against your skull, which feels like it might crack with one wrong move.
What’s more, light seeps into the room from curtains you must have drawn haphazardly the night before. You can’t even begin to attempt opening your eyes, but the mid-morning sun still stubbornly makes its way through, so you screw them closed tighter in defiance.
Your limbs feel full of sand as you sluggishly attempt to readjust yourself, digging your head into your mattress beneath you to block out as much light as you can as you prepare to literally die.
Except it’s not your mattress that your cheek is smushed into, it’s your boyfriend’s perfectly firm and endearingly freckled chest, rising and falling in a steady and soothing pattern that you might miscalculate the fact that he’s sleeping, if you didn’t spend as many nights as his schedule would allow memorizing everything you can about Jack Abbot’s sleeping habits.
His hand rests on the back of your neck, a steadying weight. “Mornin’, birthday girl.”
The raspy, whispered words bring the previous night — until then a giant, devious question mark — back in screaming color, the reason for your current miserableness explained by glasses poured for you and cups refilled without your asking and shots pressed into your hands re-registers itself in your memory bank suddenly.
“Ugh,” is your only answer, still face down in Jack’s torso.
A laugh rumbles through it, which you should find upsetting given your current aversion to sound and movement and everything else, but combined with the hand stroking the back of your head, warmth blooms in your own chest.
“I knew the ibuprofen I shoved down your throat last night would be useless.”
You finally dare to crack an eye open, tilting your head up just enough to see his face, before you have to shut it again. “Y’what?”
“Almost had to hold your mouth closed. Like when we sedate Jasper,” he says, still speaking softly.
“Mm,” you say, feeling the aforementioned pitbull mix groan from the foot of the bed as he readjusts, evidently just as exhausted from the night before as you are currently.
Jack’s thumb strokes your cheek and you open your eyes again, both of them this time.
You’re rewarded for your bravery by his ruffled hair, the smudges of your rougey-pink lipstick on his jaw and down his neck and the lines under his eyes, which are devastatingly, achingly soft.
“Happy birthday, baby,” he murmurs, and you hide a smile and a pair of warm cheeks in your hand as the arm that had been clutching at his waist folds itself under your head, your body turning over into him slightly.
“Thank you,” you say.
Jack’s eyes flicker down your visage slowly, and you can’t imagine the absolute mess you must look right now, but you’d never be able to tell that from the honey in his eyes and the fond, upward curve of his lips as he gazes upon you.
He shakes his head, lifting it off his pillow, eyes flicking to your lips. “C’mere.”
“Mm,” you sigh as your lips meet his, and you’re suddenly cognizant of a blurry scene in his en-suite bathroom last night after everyone had gone, parked on the counter as Jack put your pre-pasted toothbrush in your mouth for you before reaching around to unzip your top, guiding the fabric down your arms gently and then popping the button on your jeans.
You remember looking at him, attempting to convey suggestion in your eyes, but he’d only smiled with his own tooth brush in his mouth and shook his head, squeezing a promise of “tomorrow” into your waist, then left and reemerged with a matching pajama set that he’d patiently helped you into after you’d rinsed your mouth with water, his hand holding your hair back as you spit into the sink.
Tomorrow was now, though, and Jack’s tongue slowly drags along yours in a way that makes your thighs press together before you’re pulling away, pecking his lips once, twice, before settling back down.
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he answers, hand brushing your hair back. “You had fun last night?”
You smile, thinking back to how utterly content you’d felt in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck, pleasantly tipsy off of an expensive bottle of champagne and an extra dirty martini during dinner at your favorite restaurant.
It was the perfect ending to a perfectly perfect birthday eve, your first with Jack at your side. He didn’t let the shift he’d been stuck with on your actual birthday stop him from showering you with flowers and gifts and affection the day before.
He’d even made you wait to blow out the candle in the scoop of ice cream you’d shared as dessert at the restaurant as he hastily tried to open the camera on his phone, meeting your eye over the lens as the flash went off, skin crinkling at the corners.
You had made him show you the photo, and you’d never seen yourself look so lovesick.
Except for, you’re sure, the plethora of photos that were no doubt coming in text messages from the invited guests of your surprise birthday party.
Not a jumpy knee, shaky hand or awkwardly rushed timeline to give him away, Jack had kept up the rouse of a quiet end to the night at his place with a nice bottle of wine he’d been saving for it, his hand a steady weight at the small of your back as he reached around you to unlock his front door, promptly nudging you in before him as you prepared yourself to greet Jasper at his door.
But instead you found Jack’s home positively teeming with your best friends, siblings, coworkers, Jack’s coworkers, your college friends who lived over an hour away, neighbors — anyone and everyone in your life that you loved.
And the top of that list stood behind you with a toothy grin practically splitting his face in two when you turned back to him, ready to catch you when you threw yourself into his arms, cheers and camera flashes suddenly in the background of your mind, Jasper jumping on the back of your legs.
“You did this for me?” you’d asked, your voice shaking, already feeling tears clog your throat and push at your waterline.
“I’d do anything for you,” he’d whispered in your ear, before placing a kiss on your cheek. “Now go say ‘hi’ to everyone before you cry. I’m gonna make you a drink. Any requests?”
You’d shaken your head, pulling away from him, in awe of this wonderful man in your life as you blink back those shocked tears, this man who’d appeared one day at your brother’s bedside and in your life in black scrubs, introducing himself as Dr. Abbot, and had never left since.
You’d given him a kiss so tender you almost felt vulnerable doing it with an audience before sending him on his way with a shake of your head in answer to his question. “You know what I like.”
He’d watched for a few moments as your brother and sister folded you into a group hug before he disappeared into the kitchen, accepting pats to the back from everyone he passed by.
“Best birthday ever,” you tell him now. “I still can’t believe you did all of that.”
“Your sister helped. A lot,” he emphasizes. “And so did Robby. Santos told me he and Dana ran setup like triage yesterday.”
You can’t help but giggle into his chest, even if your head pounds as you do so. You groan, shutting your eyes again.
“God, your coworkers almost killed me. I can’t believe they have to work today,” you say, a vivid memory of Trinity, Parker, Crus and John conspiring over a punch bowl — that had definitely been a key contribution to your demise — appearing in your currently scattered brain.
“Record number of callouts is my guess,” he says, eyes dancing when you can open yours again. “And what about yours, huh? I haven’t done a Jell-O shot since college.”
You groan again, and Jack laughs, kissing your forehead. “M’sorry, baby. Too soon.”
Your own coworkers, pausing from their steady routine of passing you cups and screaming at you to do a speech, had at one point pulled you aside under the string lights in the backyard to repeat the same story you’d heard over and over that night.
Group chats set up six weeks ago, swearings to secrecy, a collaborative playlist, every last person assigned a task and given a blank check to complete it.
Your sister and your best friend and even Jack’s best friend emphasizing to you that pulling this off was all he could talk about.
Robby’d given you a bear hug before telling you he hadn’t seen Jack this worked up over something in a long, long time, pouring directly into your empty cup of champagne something dark and bitter, toasting to you both.
Your boyfriend’s praises sung to you over and over and being preached to the choir, because it was all you could do to not rudely leave the conversation, kick everyone out and push Jack back onto his couch to show him how thankful you really were every time you’d lock eyes across his kitchen or his backyard.
You’d just settled for mouthed “I love you”s and subtle, disbelieving shakes of your head, which he’d return with winks and sheepish shrugs, the sentiment echoed.
“I love you,” you say again, out loud now, as close to him as you can possibly be, in the way you’d wanted to be all night.
You’d done a poor job resisting him, finding his lap anytime he took a seat anywhere, until you were inevitably summoned for photos or more drinks or departing guests. He’d just tap your thigh, ordering you to go because he’d be here and ready to receive your affections long, long after your last guest left.
You worry you’ve worn the phrase out, wondering when it will start to get old.
“I love you,” Jack says, reminding you it hasn’t gotten old. You don’t think it ever will.
Your heart happy, your head in shambles, and your stomach suddenly glaringly empty, you sigh, thinking about the treacherous drive to the bagel shop you’ll ask Jack to take you to once you can stand, the thought of being left alone in his bed too much to bear in your current state and your only mission for your actual birthday being to get your favorite bagels.
“No one’s ever done anything like that for me before,” you admit, laying your head back on his chest, your eyes fluttering shut. Jack traces the shell of your ear slowly, carefully, almost willing you back to sleep before he speaks.
“You deserve it. You deserve everything,” he says. “And I’m gonna give it to you for as long as you’ll tolerate me.”
Ever willingly parting with Jack a scenario so preposterous that you almost laugh again, but you settle for a kiss to his sternum, pressing your forehead into his neck like his body heat might help speed up your recovery.
“Please tell me we just get to rot today,” you say.
“For a little,” he laughs. “After breakfast and coffee, I was thinking we could walk Jasp to the store. I’ve gotta pick up some groceries, but then I’m gonna cook you dinner and actually open that bottle of wine if you can handle it.”
“What’re you gonna make?” you ask.
“For breakfast? Breakfast just got dropped off at the door,” he says.
“What?”
“Bagels and coffee,” he says, checking his smart watch. “Or did you mean dinner? Then your favorite, obviously.”
Your eyes are open now, and Jack can see the way they widen when he suddenly moves out from under you, suddenly caging you in with his arms, his body nudging your legs apart to make room for his frame.
“And then, if you can handle it,” he says, just a breath above your lips. “There are a few promises I intend to make good on.”
You let out a susprised moan when he presses his hips into your own, just a firm, steadying presence sending a thrill down your spine all the same, promises for what’s to come later whispered into your ear, then pressed down the column of your throat, one of his hands reaching down to stroke at your hip, alternating between slipping beneath your waist band and nudging up under your shirt.
“S’that sound good to you, baby?” he asks into your neck.
All you can do is shake your head, his face gripped between your palms, your stare locked to his in confusion once he pulls off of you, his lips shiny.
“How did I even find you?”
Jack shakes his head, too, leaning back down, a trio of pecks on your lips before he rolls off, Jasper’s head picking up in interest as his owner sits up on the side of the bed.
Jack’s quiet as he works his prosthetic on, turning back to find you dazed, in awe, and in so much love you feel like you could choke on it, his reply simple.
summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.
notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.
word count: 15620
“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”
Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”
“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.
You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.
“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.
“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”
Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”
You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.
“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”
Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.
“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.
You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”
She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”
“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”
Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.
The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.
“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”
You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.
“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.
“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”
Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.
Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.
“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”
You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”
He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.
“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”
You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”
Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.
You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.
“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”
“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.
“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.
“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”
Ellis snorts beside you.
“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”
You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.
“You have my badge.”
You frown. “What?”
“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.
He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.
“Attending physician, huh?”
You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”
He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.
“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.
You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.
“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.
You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”
“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”
Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”
She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.
“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”
“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”
You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.
“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”
His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”
He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.
“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.
“Benching?” Ellis asks.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Let me guess—personal best?”
He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”
“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”
He wriggles them slowly.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”
You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.
“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”
“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.
You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”
“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.
You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”
She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.
“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”
“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”
You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”
“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”
You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.
“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”
He smirks. “So I have a shot?”
You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”
He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.
Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.
“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”
“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”
He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”
“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”
His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.
His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.
“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.
“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”
Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”
You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”
He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”
“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.
You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.
“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”
He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”
You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.
You look at her. “Ready?”
She nods once.
“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”
You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.
“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”
He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.
“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.
You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.
Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”
You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—
“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”
You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.
“Move your fingers,” you tell him.
He does.
“Any numbness?”
He shakes his head.
“Good.”
You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.
“Comfortable?” she asks.
Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”
“Then have a nap.”
You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.
“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”
“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.
You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”
He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.
Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”
You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm not—”
“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.
You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”
You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”
“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”
“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”
Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.
Retiring?
You blink, your brows drawing tighter.
Retiring?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?
From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?
It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.
Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.
You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.
You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.
Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.
Except for...
Well—except for Jack.
But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.
So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—
“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”
Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.
“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”
He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”
You tilt your head. “Worth it?”
“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”
You nod. “I’m in.”
The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.
You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?
In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”
That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.
“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”
You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.
“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”
“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.
You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.
“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”
You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”
Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”
Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.
Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.
“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.
You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.
“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”
You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.
“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”
“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.
“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”
You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.
“Josh!”
A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.
“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”
Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”
You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”
His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.
“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.
You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”
“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”
You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.
You hum. “Right.”
“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.
Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.
“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.
Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.
“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.
Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.
“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”
Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.
“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”
Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.
“What about alcohol?” you ask again.
“Like—two beers,” he replies.
“Any drugs?”
“No—ah—no drugs.”
You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”
“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.
Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”
Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”
“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”
He nods again. “Good.”
You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.
“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.
“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”
You nod once before turning back to Josh.
“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”
He shakes his head faintly. “No.”
“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”
“Which antibiotic?”
“Cefazolin?”
He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”
You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.
“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”
“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”
He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.
“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”
You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.
“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”
Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.
You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.
When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.
You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—
You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.
“Deran?”
The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.
He smiles. “Hey, doc.”
“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.
He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.
“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”
“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.
He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Go for it.”
You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.
“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”
You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”
He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.
You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”
You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.
“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”
His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”
You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”
“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”
You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”
He gasps. “All of them?”
“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.
“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.
“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”
You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.
“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”
“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.
Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.
“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”
“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”
His brows lift. “Wow.”
Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”
He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”
You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.
After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”
You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”
He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.
“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”
He lifts it slowly.
“Can you move your fingers?”
His eyes go wide.
You give him a flat look. “Just try.”
His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.
“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.
“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.
He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.
“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”
You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”
“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”
It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.
Then it clicks.
“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”
He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”
You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”
“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”
“Everything alright in here?”
You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.
You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”
“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.
“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”
Then you glance back at Jack.
“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”
Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”
You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.
“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”
He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”
He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”
You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”
Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.
“You know him?”
You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”
He lifts a brow. “Friend?”
You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”
He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”
“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.
Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”
You frown. “Why?”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”
Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.
You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.
Great. Must be a brand-new patient.
You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.
The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.
You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.
“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.
You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”
He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”
You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.
“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”
Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”
You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”
He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”
“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”
His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”
You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”
“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.
Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.
He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.
Then he pulls away.
Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.
You blink. “What was that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
He steps toward the door.
“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”
You stare at him. “Seriously?”
He reaches for the handle.
“South Sixteen.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.
That was weird.
Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.
It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.
The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.
“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”
Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”
You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”
Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”
“Perfect. I’ll—”
“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”
You frown. “But I—”
“Now.”
You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.
“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”
Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.
You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.
You just can’t figure out why.
He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.
He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.
And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.
But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?
“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”
You blink. “Yeah. Why?”
“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”
“And if I am?”
“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”
Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”
You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”
“Deran.”
“Oh.”
You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.
“That was fast,” you mutter.
Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”
You shrug. “Yeah.”
“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”
She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”
You sigh. “Yep.”
She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.
You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.
The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.
It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.
“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”
Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”
“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.
“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.
“The wings?”
She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”
You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”
“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”
Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”
“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.
Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”
You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.
You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”
Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”
“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.
Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
You look at her. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”
Ellis nods. “Okay.”
“Good.”
Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.
It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.
Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.
If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.
The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.
“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”
You blink. “What?”
Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”
You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.
“Oh.”
Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”
You frown. “Who?”
“Dr. Abbot.”
“Why?”
Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”
You sigh. “Great.”
He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.
“Did he say where?” you ask.
“South.”
You nod once. “Thanks.”
Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.
You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.
“Shen said you wanted to see me.”
He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”
“And?”
“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.
You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”
You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.
“Okay. I’ll send him up.”
Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.
“Have you eaten?”
You frown. “What?”
“Have you eaten anything tonight?”
“I had an energy drink.”
He stares at you. “That’s not food.”
You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”
“Make time.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”
He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.
“There’s a container in the fridge.”
You blink. “What?”
“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”
Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”
He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”
As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.
“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”
You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.
“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”
“You’re welcome.”
You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.
You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.
“Oh. Hey.”
Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”
You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.
You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.
“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.
“Huh?”
You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.
“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”
You tilt your head. “How do you know?”
“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.
“Oh.”
You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.
“What’d he say?”
Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”
You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”
Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”
You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”
Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”
“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”
“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”
You blink. “What?”
Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”
“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”
The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.
“That’s different?” Ellis offers.
You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”
Ellis snorts. “Or were.”
You glare at her.
“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”
You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”
“You mean jealous.”
Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”
“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”
Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”
“Thank you.”
“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”
You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”
You stare at her.
“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”
She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.
“That’s not casual.”
The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.
“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”
Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.
You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.
No.
It’s not—
It can’t be—
You would know if you were in—
Fuck.
You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.
This is ridiculous.
Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.
You’re not in—
God. You can’t even think about that word.
You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.
It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.
Jerk.
You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.
Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.
“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”
Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”
You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.
“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”
He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”
You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”
His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”
You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.
“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”
He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.
“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”
He lifts his head.
“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”
His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”
“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”
He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”
You roll your eyes. “Really?”
“Will you be here when I wake up?”
You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”
He sighs. “Damn.”
You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”
He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”
You tilt your head. “What guy?”
“The one that came in here before. The attending.”
Your stomach drops.
“What about him?”
“I thought he was your boss.”
You fold your arms. “He is.”
“Huh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”
You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”
He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”
“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”
“Tell your boss I said hi.”
“Bye, Deran.”
His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.
You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.
The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.
Not that you’re feeling anything.
At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.
You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.
By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.
Because that’s exactly what it is.
Ridiculous.
“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”
You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.
He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.
Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.
Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.
You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.
Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.
It must be really sore tonight.
He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.
Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.
His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.
“You alright?”
You blink. “What?”
Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”
“Uh—”
You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.
What the fuck?
You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.
“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”
Your stomach flips. “What?”
He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”
“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”
He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”
“Ellis?”
“Not just Ellis.”
Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”
He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”
“Together?”
He frowns. “You’re not?”
“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”
His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”
“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”
Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”
Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”
Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”
You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—
“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”
“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”
Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”
You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”
He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.
He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.
Your stomach twists.
Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.
And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.
The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.
By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.
Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.
His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”
Shit.
“Um. Sure.”
You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.
When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.
“What was that?”
You take a small step back. “What was what?”
He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”
“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”
You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”
“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”
Your head snaps up. “My friend?”
“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a conflict of interest.”
You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”
He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.
“Yes.”
You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”
He blinks. “Who?”
“Central Nine. Your ex.”
He stares at you for a second.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“So he’s not just an old friend.”
You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”
For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.
“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”
Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”
You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.
“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”
You frown again. “Favourites?”
He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”
Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.
“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.
He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”
The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.
You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.
Whatever.
Maybe they don’t mean anything.
You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.
Ridiculous.
You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.
“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.
You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.
“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”
You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”
“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”
You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”
Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”
Your brows lift. “Really?”
Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."
“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”
“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.
You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.
“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.
His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”
You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.
It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.
“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”
“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”
He glances around the unusually empty floor.
“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.
Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.
“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”
You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.
The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.
“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”
The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.
Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”
“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.
“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”
The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.
“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Barry,” he murmurs.
“Where does it hurt, Barry?”
He winces. “My—my stomach.”
The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.
“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”
Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”
You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.
The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.
“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.
Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.
“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.
He grimaces when you reach his left side.
“Left’s worse.”
Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”
Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.
“RUQ,” Robby says.
You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”
“LUQ.”
“Clear.”
“Pelvis.”
“Nothing obvious.”
“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”
You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”
She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.
Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”
You press a hand against his shoulder.
“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”
“She’s okay?”
You nod. “She’s okay.”
He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.
“Hold on.”
You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.
“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”
He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”
He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.
“Lidocaine,” Robby says.
You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.
“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”
He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.
“Saline,” Robby says.
You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.
“How’s the pain?” you ask.
“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.
“Forceps.”
You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.
“Light,” he murmurs.
You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.
You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.
“Scissors,” Robby says.
You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.
“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.
“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.
“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.
But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.
Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.
Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.
Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.
Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.
Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.
She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.
“Doctor.”
You blink, glancing back at Robby.
“Yeah?”
He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.
“Forceps.”
You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.
His eyes flick up. “You alright?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m—”
Oh my God.
You are smiling.
You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.
Oh my God.
You’re in love with Jack Abbot.
“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”
You take one unsteady step back from the bed.
“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.
Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”
Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.
“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”
“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”
Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”
“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”
Your head snaps up. “Hm?”
He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”
“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”
Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.
You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.
Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?
You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.
Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.
Or… all you wanted.
Now?
Now you’re not sure what you want.
Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.
You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.
You can’t imagine anything without Jack.
Which is terrifying.
Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.
And now... he matters.
You sit up and drag in a deep breath.
You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.
With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.
You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—
“Hey. You okay?”
Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.
“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”
“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.
His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating.
“You sure?”
You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”
He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.
“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.
You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.
It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.
Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.
Now you just need to handover your patients.
You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.
“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”
He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”
You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”
“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”
Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”
He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”
You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.
Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out.
Ellis: Need anything from the store?
Your stomach drops.
“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.
“Uh—yeah. Fine.”
You tuck your phone back into your pocket.
“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”
“Mhm.”
“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Langdon snorts. “Got it.”
You nod. “Great. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
He smiles. “Great sign-out.”
“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.
You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.
You: You’re dead to me.
You: And toothpaste.
When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.
Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.
“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”
“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”
You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.
You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.
Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?
“You ready?”
You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”
Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”
You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.
“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.
You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”
You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.
“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.
“Nope,” you reply, too fast.
Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.
“Where are you going?”
“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.
He follows you. Because of course he does.
“You’re going to catch a bus?”
“Yep.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.
“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”
That makes you stop.
You turn around. “No strings attached?”
He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”
“What I want?”
“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”
You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.
“Just drop me off?”
He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.
“And then what?” you ask.
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Then you just leave?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”
He frowns. “Saying what?”
“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”
He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.
“What are we talking about here?”
“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”
“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”
“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”
“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”
His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”
You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.
“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”
“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”
“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”
You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.
“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”
You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.
“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”
Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.
He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.
“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”
He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.
“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”
His gaze holds yours.
“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”
His expression softens again.
“Do you understand?”
You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.
“Now listen to me.”
He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.
“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”
His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.
“I love you too.”
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.
His lips quirk. “You alright?”
“No,” you breathe.
And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.
He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.
You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.
And for a second, neither of you seems to care.
The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.
Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.
“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.
He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.
Then he pulls back completely.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.
The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.
“Still catching the bus?”
You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”
He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.
“My car’s the other way,” he calls.
You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.
Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” you say again.
His smile only widens.
You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.
You just know.
And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.
no cause this stirred something within me and I had to cook. full credit to @imnolongerasullengirl for the inspo
Pairing: Dr. Robby x f!reader (ft. Jack Abbot x f!reader)
Word count: 8.5k
CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: mean!reader, inaccurate medical/hospital processes, social worker!reader, Noelle Hastings mentioned (lil canon divergence duh), explicit age gap (reader is 25, Robby's in his 50s), flirting, inappropriate workplace relationship, dry humping (reader is "asleep" and uses Robby to get off), fingering, hand job, masturbation, phone sex, oral (m receiving), hurt/comfort, pathetic!robby you will always be my everything
Summary: You've had enough of Robby running through women with his bullshit "seven week itch", so after he breaks Noelle's heart, you decide to mess with him to give him a taste of his own medicine
a/n: unhinged!reader you will always be famous to me!!
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
You've had enough by the third day in a row Noelle calls you on her way out of work to complain about Robby.
In all fairness, it's your own fault for having allowed her to go out with him instead of nipping it in the bud the second you noticed her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth turn upwards into a flirty smirk.
Ugh if you could go back in time, you would've slapped the ever living shit out of both of them, her for falling for it and him...for literally just existing.
Luckily for you, you got put on night shift rotation soon after they started...hanging out. Cause, even at his old ass age of fifty plus years, chief attending Michael Robinavitch "doesn't date”.
"We're just keeping it casual". Ah yes, famous last words for an anxiously attached, perfect princess that is Noelle Hastings.
It doesn't matter how smart someone is, no one prepares you for how stupid “getting dicked down good”, her words, not yours, will make you. You honestly wish you could scrub the memory of her coming down to the ED almost every single second of the day with the most obnoxious excuses just so that she could talk to him.
It made you gag involuntarily every time, earning you a sharp slap on the arm from her and a curious side glance from Dana. After a few days of torture, your boss needed to switch you out to nights, their resident recluse social worker that tended to take the shifts having to take a sudden leave of absence and since your other coworker had just become a dad, it was literally down to you.
The joys of being single and unattached.
So you'd made the switch, getting to escape the horror that was seeing them interact in person, but still getting an hour long debrief every night while you got ready to clock in.
You're certain this is how they're going to torture you when you inevitably end up in hell and this is just a preview.
"And then he texted that he needed space, that this just isn't working for him anymore! Can you believe him?"
Yes, yes you can.
You sigh into the phone, not really knowing what to say to comfort her since...you both knew of his reputation before she jumped into bed with him.
So you settle on—"I'm sorry, babe. He's an idiot who clearly doesn't know what he's throwing away."
The words sound foreign to you when you say them. They're rehearsed, recycled from all the other times you've had to give her the same reassurance over and over again.
Truth be told, Noelle is also a part of the problem, so focused on being the one to break his pattern that she also fell victim to her own self-destructive nature.
"I just—I feel like I'm crazy, you know? Like what the fuck is wrong with me? I'm forty-two for fuck's sake! I should not be feeling this—this—ugh!"
That pulls a little giggle out of you. It's always funny to you when, no matter her age and maturity, she ends up in situations that make her feel just as silly and confused as your twenty-five year old ass.
"Hey!" you check her. "You did nothing wrong...aside from sleeping with him when you knew he was emotionally unavailable—" she whines, forcing another laugh from you. "He's the problem. He should just make peace with dying alone and not bother anyone else for the rest of his miserable life."
You hear her let out a laugh that unmistakably crumbles into a sob. Fuck, you feel so bad. You wish you could comfort her, wish you could be a good friend to her, but the truth is...you honestly don't know how.
So you joke.
"And hey, maybe some hot piece of ass will cross his path and give him a taste of his own medicine, he's bound to run into someone with an even worse avoidant attachment than him."
You chuckle nervously.
The line goes uncharacteristically quiet.
Ominous.
You tap your phone screen to make sure you haven't lost her.
The call's timer continues on.
And then—
"Why don't you do it?"
After a five minute long string of apologies and desperately trying to let you know that she didn't mean for it to come across as questioning your character—which ouch, to say the least—Noelle finally let you get a word in.
"Yeah why not."
You would've given anything to see the shock on her face in person but the thick silence that followed your admission would have to do for now.
In all honesty, you've been looking for another project to keep you entertained through the rigorousness and emotional weight that came from working as a social worker. All your empathy went to making sure your patients got the best care and support possible, so being given a reason to do something just a little mean?
Worth the possible humiliation, and even then, you could just go back to working nights and escape having to deal with him ever again.
Yeah you definitely needed to work on your avoidance…but that could wait.
Convincing your boss to let you switch to days wasn’t hard. You’d asked one of your coworkers who owed you a favor to switch with you, claim he needed to do something, you honestly couldn’t care, for seven weeks and that they needed to change around their hours.
It works flawlessly.
So after one more night shift and two days to get your body back on track for days, you were making your way into the ED for your 8 am call time for the first time in years.
And immediately…you desperately miss the night shift.
You’ve had to work closely with some of the day shift doctors and nurses throughout your tenure, but it was always just one or two per shift, drenched in the pace and culture of the night shift—a little weird but also very chill—so now having to deal with all of them…it was a shock to the system to say the least.
Santo’s anger, Whitaker’s “nice guy” persona, McKay’s righteousness, Ogilvie’s…everything; it’s a lot to take in constantly. You cherish getting to work with the more level headed ones and constantly have to bite your tongue when Robby reprimands them.
Michael Robinavitch is…the universe’s response to you, all ego and fragile masculinity.
You can see the appeal, rugged around the edges, like a home renovation project you know will ultimately cost you your entire life’s savings but maybe, just maybe, you’ll find original hardwood floors underneath the disgusting plastic panelling the last landlord installed.
Jokes on everyone because you’re investing in this house to tear it all down.
You spend the first week observing, calculating, making friends and getting as much gossip as you can from the loves of your life, Perlah and Princess. If either of them know about your reputation, neither lets it be known, eager to actually talk shop with someone from nights who can fill in the gaps to the gossip that has gone incomplete for the past year.
So you do, you trade information for loyalty, something that Dana clocks right away.
She tries to shoo you away constantly, begging you not to distract her staff, but that doesn’t stop you from joining their group chat, bringing them coffee, joining them for bottomless margaritas after their shift.
The doctors aren’t any different either, loose tongues spewing little comments about Robby’s deteriorating behavior ever since Pitt Fest almost a year ago.
For a second you feel bad, all of his outbursts clearly stemming from the trauma of the event…and after you learn that his mentor passed away that same day, well the whole picture makes much more sense.
How Noelle ever thought that she could fix him is beyond you.
There’s nothing to fix, only a shell of a man that literally doesn’t know where he’s going anymore or even if he wants to keep going in any direction.
You do wonder if you might start pushing him too far, what his reaction could be if what you do actually pushes him over the edge. You try to inquire about support systems and even therapy…but he’s literally raw dogging his illness.
All you really can do is tell Jack to be ready if anything happens.
Which you’re sure won’t.
Robby’s too narcissistic for it.
God’s gift to medicine and all that.
He’s a lonely bachelor. Afraid of the silence. Overwhelmed by the noise. Just a ball of stress and anxiety and everything that makes your chest tighten and your breathing hitch in the worst way possible.
But fuck it.
Just because you can excuse away his behavior doesn’t mean you should just let it slide.
The bigger issue now is…how to get him to become interested in you?
You honestly don’t know how you can compete with Noelle.
She’s the total package—beautiful, successful, age appropriate—there’s no way you can—
“I’ve never seen you before.”
Of course…all men are exactly the same.
You don’t even deign him with a glance his way, simply continue filling out the chart in your hands.
“That’s good,” you joke. “I’d be worried if you had, there’s thousands of people working in the hospital, it would be creepy if you knew every single person.”
You hear him smirk, shifting closer to you until your arms touch.
Oh this is going to be absurdly easy.
“I’m Dr. Robinavitch,” he awkwardly extends his hand towards you. “But everyone just calls me Robby.”
That’s when you turn to look at him, a shy yet genuine smile tugging at your lips. You shake his hand, making sure to linger just enough as you tell him your name in return.
You can see his brain working overtime to commit it to memory.
You finally let go of his hand when Dana calls out to him, incoming trauma, two minutes out, multi-car pileup.
Oh boy, that’s gonna be a shit show.
You feel him wince, taking off his hoodie in preparation for the marathon he’s about to run. You can’t help but ogle, the way his scrub top lifts ever so slightly, exposing his soft belly underneath.
You breathing hitches ever so slightly, but he catches it, catches you. Hook.
He grins, his beautiful crows feet framing his tired eyes. Line.
Your cheeks heat up. You advert your gaze, shame bubbling ever so slightly.
“Good luck,” you tell him, running away before the ED devolves into even more chaos.
He’s too slow, watching you go as the world around him disappears for just a second, realization dawning on him that he didn’t get your number.
Sinker.
He doesn’t ask anyone for your number.
You know because no one has come up to you to ask if you’re okay with the chief of the emergency department having direct access to you.
So you just wait.
You know you’ll run into him again eventually, but every time you go down to the ED after the car crash leaves you empty. You don’t run into him even once. You barely even catch glimpses of him walking the floor and catching up with his residents.
If he’s straight up avoiding you, there’s simply no way to know.
So you’re left to manufacture your own luck, unfortunately.
You know about their park beer tradition.
So you linger. Gross.
Day shift ends at seven. There’s charting and handovers and…whatever old men do when they don’t have a reason to go home so they stick around for way longer than they have to.
It’s about nine when you notice the day shift start to thin out so you take your chance, pretending to be engrossed in your phone as you loiter around the public entrance to the ED. It’s five minutes later when Donnie, Perlah, Santos, Samira and Whitaker step out, two six packs in hand.
“Hey, transplant!” Donnie greets you, the nickname causing you to roll your eyes playfully. In another life, you could’ve been great friends. “Wanna join us?”
He lifts up a pack so that you’ll catch his drift.
You pretend to think about it for two seconds until they catch your drift, devolving into a gaggle of laughter and pent up energy.
You follow them across the street to the park, settling next to Perlah as you try to ask her about her day in Tagalog, gotta keep up with them somehow.
Small talk is lively and you can literally feel the energy shift as they unload the horrible things that happened to them.
You listen, intently and surprisingly engaged, as Donnie and Santos reenact the scene for you.
It’s like your body knows he’s behind you before anyone gives you a heads up.
“Want one, cap?” Donnie asks him but you’re certain he declines because all he says is your name, practically begging you to turn to look at him.
You do, pretending to be a doe caught in headlights, your favorite move honestly.
“Ready to go?”
Your brows scrunch in confusion briefly before you catch the meaning in his words.
Oh wow. You did not think he was going to be so forward.
Okay, this makes it even easier for you.
“Yeah!”
You detach yourself from Perlah and Samira, saying goodbye to everyone and chugging the last of your now warm beer before adding it to the tower you’ve constructed. When it doesn’t topple over, you all erupt into a chorus of cheers.
You bow dramatically, cheeks hot, heart beating out of your chest.
“I’ll catch you guys later,” you wave goodbye, grabbing your tote and walking away from the group towards your apartment, not even bothering to wait for Robby to catch up, because you just know he’s following.
He settles into a comfortable pace beside you two blocks later, after a long internal battle with himself to follow through or back out. He still can, you know for a fact he won’t do anything to you in this state, even if you’re perfectly fine only having had one beer.
His arm bumps against yours, his towering frame inadvertently making you drool a little.
“I didn’t know I had an escort tonight,” you chuckle, the double meaning of your words clearly making him choke on a breath.
You giggle, enjoying his lack of game. It’s all a ploy, you know that much. Pretend to be shy and like he doesn’t know what he’s doing—it’s definitely disarming.
“What can I say,” he huffs. “Would you like me to make up a lie about crime rising in the city or how a lady as lovely as yourself should definitely not be walking alone at night?”
Your cheeks burn. Jesus fuck, he’s good.
“Well, considering I usually take the bus and decided to walk only because a grown ass man such as yourself doesn’t drive a car—”
He lets out a gasp in mock offense. “Hey, it would be irresponsible for me to drive after working for more than twelve hours.”
It’s a line, definitely. Yet it works.
You stop abruptly, giving him the reaction he craves.
He turns to you then, a little concerned, definitely still strung up from all that pent up energy that won’t leave him, ready to get right back into crisis mode—
“That’s…so hot.”
His features soften as your words process.
He shoots you a shy smile in return. “Don’t know about that—”
“What, you don’t think empathy is sexy?”
He looks down at his shoes then, finding them incredibly interesting all of a sudden.
“I don’t think I’m…it doesn’t matter. Point is,” he looks back up at you, like a lost puppy that’s begging you to get him off the street. “I prefer to walk.”
You don’t hesitate, stepping up to him, getting all up in his personal space, arms wrapping around his torso, standing on your tip toes so that you can be as close to his mouth as possible.
“Well, I don’t have to think,” you whisper over his lips. “I just know.”
You watch him close his eyes, mouth hanging open just slightly, body just barely leaning forward into you.
He wants you to do it.
You smirk, your lips right there—
He almost falls flat on his face as you swiftly detach yourself from him.
“I’m starving, Dr. Robby,” you whine.
It takes him a second to regain his composure. You’re certain he’s thanking every single deity that it’s just the two of you right now because he definitely looks pathetic.
“Wanna get some food?” He clears his throat, the pink on his ears a clear sign that he’s just not okay.
You nod, biting back a grin, threading his hand in yours and pulling him towards the 24-hour diner up ahead.
You spend the rest of the week doing the awkward dance around your feelings.
You’re certain he’s made up his mind about you, waiting for you to take the leap and put him out of his misery for good.
But you don’t.
You keep him on his toes, questioning whether your touches are simply friendly or not, desperate for you to help him find some relief from the lust that has started to build up inside of him.
It’s a Saturday when you finally put your plan into motion.
You’re over at his, a pizza and a pint of ice cream shared while watching a movie. Such a domestic night. If you didn’t know any better, it’d look like the two of you were in a relationship.
You’ve “fallen asleep” as the credits roll, body falling onto his in the process. You can feel his heart speed up as you cuddle into him, head resting snugly over his chest as your leg drapes over his crotch.
He’s already hard under the blanket, it’s why he draped it over his legs in the first place, but you managed to burrow yourself under it quickly, reveling in how he tensed painfully as you did so, your warmth on his body overwhelming.
You’ll give it to Robby, his restraint has been astounding. He hasn’t even tried to kiss you yet, luckily for you. You wait until his heart returns to normal, until he lulls himself into a false sense of security, until he doesn’t try to move you or wake you up.
He’s enjoying this just as much as you are.
It’s when he settles, arms wrapped around you softly, enjoying your closeness, that you strike.
You move your hips, a sleepy jerk at first.
It’s exhilarating.
His heart picks up again, arms lifting off your body for deniability, but you don’t wake up. Instead, you adjust, further onto him, practically straddling him now.
Your crotch rubs over his, the thin fabric of his boxers that he’s lent you so that you can sleep more comfortably doing nothing to stop him from feeling just how warm you are down there.
He stifles a groan, his dick practically screaming at him for some relief. He’s decked himself out in sweatpants and a long sleeve, practically covering up every inch of skin in an attempt to not come across as a creep.
And what have you done?
The exact opposite, wearing his shirt, his underwear, and nothing else.
He should feel elated that you’re so comfortable around him, but right now, with your folds practically rubbing against him, he’s reminded of just how depraved he is.
You hum softly, satisfyingly as your clit rubs against his length.
There’s no way this is actually happening, that you know what you’re doing, right?
When you don’t wake yourself up, Robby settles down a little, allowing himself the simple indulgence of feeling you, of being used for your pleasure.
Your mouth hangs open just against his neck. He can feel the little pants, the neediness—
He just wants to help, he needs to.
So he shakes you awake.
“Honey,” the word rumbles against your ear. “Need you to stop doing that.”
You “blink awake”, catching yourself in the act, mortification flooding your face instantly.
“Oh my god I am so sorry,” you go to leap off him but his hands instantly stop you, pressing you roughly against him.
You moan, hands coming up to bunch in the fabric of his shirt.
“Robby—” you pant, real shame bubbling in your gut, a spark of excitement rushing through your body.
He shushes you gently, slowly moving you over his dick, the pressure just right.
“Fuck.” You actually want to cum now. A nice side effect from all of your scheming.
He manages a chuckle, eyes locked on you, desperate to watch you come undone over him, against him, because of him.
“That’s it,” he groans. “Use me, baby, such a good girl.”
So you put on a good show for him.
Your mouth hangs open in a perpetual oh, your hips begin to roll in tandem with his own, your hands caress his shoulders, making their way around his neck to rake your fingernails on the nape, scratching right where you’ve seen him do to himself many times before.
He shivers then, his legs shaking, core tightening as he spasms beneath you. Dampness seeps through his sweatpants, his arms snaking around your back to pull you in, press you tightly against his chest as his head falls into the crook of your neck.
He moans through his orgasm, hissing only when his dick has gone soft and you’re still putting pressure on it, your own release evading you.
“Oh baby,” he coos condescendingly and you desperately have to lock up your heart as to not fall for it. “Let me help you.”
One of his hands snakes underneath the waistband of the boxers you’re wearing, his pointer and middle finger pinching at your clit. You yelp, body jerking away from his hand but you’re so close to him that there’s nowhere to run.
So you settle on him harder, causing him just as much pain as he’s causing you.
He chuckles against your skin, moving on from pinching to rolling the pads of his fingers gently now, your own pleasure slowly building back up from there.
“Robby,” you huff into his ear, gooey and needy. “Please…please, oh god please may I cum—”
He doesn’t respond with words, instead he just picks up the pace, swishing his touch from side to side until you’re a heaving, panting mess, your core clenching around nothing and exploding in unbelievable pleasure.
Your orgasm washes over you swiftly, your own release mixing with his own, getting the two of you even more messy and worked up than before.
You slump against him, breathing heavily as you try to match your breathing with his own. He’s actually lovely, drawing gentle circles over your thighs, holding you against his warmth until you’re ready.
Eventually, you peel yourself back, a dopey smile on your face
“Hi,” Robby blushes.
“Hey,” you roll your eyes, causing him to laugh in response at your brattiness.
“Alright, whatever,” he can’t stop laughing, a sound so foreign to him that it breaks his heart a little. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You nod, making no attempt to get off him, desperate to hold onto him like glue. And to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to care, letting himself get swept away in the fantasy of intimacy.
So obviously, you have to avoid him now at all costs.
Every time you’re called down to the ED, you make sure to sneak away before he can even notice you. If you’re working on one of his cases, you’re professional and to the point, never meeting his eyes knowing a knowing smirk awaits you.
By the fourth day of you ignoring him at the hospital and dismissing his texts, you know he’s desperate. It’s why, when a hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you sharply into a supply closet, the little gasp that escapes you is more thrill than surprise.
Strong hands roam your body greedily as you barely hear the door shut, the lock latching afterwards.
He doesn’t even try to kiss your lips, instead, he focuses on leaving a sloppy, desperate trail down your neck as he towers over you.
“Robby,” you whine, voice shaky already. “What’re you—fuck, what’re you doing?”
He grins against your collarbone. “What’s it look like?”
You shiver, a breath getting caught in your chest as you try to stand your ground.
“We’re at work.”
“So?”
It’s your own fault really.
You could push him away, could set down strong boundaries and tell him to fuck off…
But you don’t.
You get swept up in the desperation, in his neediness, in just how special he’s made you with his attention.
His hand snakes beneath your skirt before you can even think of how to respond, your very cheeky choice of not wearing any shorts underneath a blessing in disguise as his fingers swiftly pull your panties to the side to run along your folds.
You whimper, legs turning to jelly as he positions his own in between them to hold you up.
“Oh baby, you’re so wet,” he groans against your ear, teeth nipping at your earlobe. “Did you miss me too?”
You nod, biting down on your lip to stop the moans from escaping.
“Gonna cum all over my fingers?” He accentuates by sliding his middle finger into you, your walls clenching around it sinfully. “Of course you are, so good for me.”
Tears begin to swell in your eyes as his pointer finger joins in, his movements leisurely and mean. He barely curls them, barely gives you any relief that isn’t for his own enjoyment.
“Robby…you’re being…you’re being mean,” you whine. “Please—”
That gets a belly laugh from him in return, cruel now.
“Oh baby, you thought I was just gonna give you what you wanted? After you ignored me for four days?”
“I wasn’t—I got busy.”
You’re panting now, voice barely recognizable as he continues to torture you.
He shakes his head. “No, you’re not that good a liar, baby,” he curls and you clench. “I’ve seen you around, seen how you run off when you see me—so now I’m gonna take my time.”
The tears fall, your makeup running down your cheeks along with them. He preens at the sight, mouth kissing over your cheekbone lightly to taste the salty streaks.
He groans at the taste, slamming you back against the wall a little harder, his fingers picking up the pace, lodging themselves inside of you and wriggling them against your g-spot relentlessly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck Robby shit—” you bite down on his bicep to muffle your moans. He hisses, the pain only spurring him on apparently.
Jesus fucking Christ, maybe you have finally found a worthy opponent.
You’re coming undone in seconds, his harshness only turning you on quicker, causing your orgasm to spring up on you suddenly. You’re shaking so hard you’re certain the shelves are vibrating around you.
He chuckles darkly, taking advantage of your blissed out state to wrap his lips just below your ear, right on your pulse point, sucking a purple mark onto your skin.
Once he’s satisfied and you’ve stopped shaking, he finally pulls back, watching you though lust clouded eyes as you continue to pant. You stare up at him, shaking your head incredulously.
It isn’t until he steps forward, his crotch pressing against your lower abdomen that you snap back to the present.
Robby’s big, unsurprising giving his…everything. The first time you felt it you had to pretend like you hadn’t noticed, all so that your heart wouldn’t give out. But now…now you want to drop to your knees and take him right into your mouth, alleviate—
His phone rings, invading your little pocket of deviancy.
He hisses loudly, annoyance exploding through every nerve in his body. You giggle, teasingly raking your nails along his exposed skin. He shivers under you but picks up the phone.
Emergency, obviously, it comes with the territory.
Even though it’s five minutes out, they’re scrambling, looking for him. He huffs in distress, nodding along to whatever Dana’s saying. Meanwhile, you distract yourself by peppering his jaw and neck with kisses, torturing him at his own game.
He hangs up the phone, making sure to settle you back down on your own two feet gently before he kisses your temple and walks to the door.
You’re supposed to let him go, keep your mysterious persona alive, you know that and yet—
Your hand reaches out for him, stopping him before he can leave.
He turns to you, brows scrunched in both confusion and hope?
“Five minutes out?”
He catches your drift instantly, his cock twitching in his scrubs painfully.
You step forward, staring up at him through your lashes, taking in how his shoulders drop, how his face relaxes, how his eyes close and his mouth hangs open just slightly as your nails flutter just above his bellybutton, pulling at his scrub top and his undershirt.
Pulling the fabric from where they’re tucked into his pants, you make a point to trace his belly, humming satisfactorily as he shivers beneath your touch. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare touch you, doesn’t even dare breathe or make a single sound.
Your left hand reaches underneath the elastic, swiftly pulling the fabric out before it wraps around the base of his length. He’s thick and hot and perfectly heavy in your palm, the hair around him only adding to his attractiveness.
Fuck, you have got to pull yourself together. This is definitely getting away from you, soon this won’t just be about playing with your food and your heart aches at the thought.
He hisses at the contact, eyes shooting open to land on yours, and the second they do, you make a show of spitting on your right hand swiftly replace your other with it.
The slick makes it so easy to stroke him, putting just the right amount of pressure against his hardness as you slowly pull his boxers and pants off to his mid thighs so that you can work more comfortably.
The cold hospital air hits his throbbing tip and he twitches against your palm, precum leaking from him and combining with your spit. You run your hand over his head, pulling a sinful hiss from him as he finally pounces, strong hands grabbing a hold of your plush hips to steady himself.
You pick up the pace in response, Robby’s legs tensing beautifully as his breathing picks up, little pants and huffs escaping his lips in tandem with your movements.
“Baby—need to—fuck—”
He doesn’t get to beg as you feel him close, right on the precipice. And because you love the cleaning staff and wish them no harm ever, you drop to your knees in an instant, mouth opening and taking his tip against your tongue as he spills, hot and heavy, against the back of your throat.
He looks almost angelic as he cums. Groans filling the tiny room freely, hands tangling in your hair, not pushing or pulling, just there. Grounding, as if he can’t believe this is actually real and not some sick fantasy.
With one whole minute to spare, he finally catches his breath, his cock limping against your tongue as you run the muscle over his slit. To clean him up, obviously, not to watch him whine pathetically as the overstimulation makes him tense up.
That’s when he pulls, a sharp tug of your hair so that you stop. You beam up at him, placing a final kiss to his tip before you oblige and get back up to your feet.
He has no words for you, only answering with an unbelieving shake of the head as he massages your scalp while you tuck him back into his underwear and secure his pants with a neat little bow.
That’s when he kisses you.
Fuck.
You’re certain if his eyes were open he’d see your own bug out of your skull.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You don’t kiss him back, you can’t, you won’t, you—
Luckily he doesn’t linger, it’s just a soft peck, one that doesn’t evolve, doesn’t become greedy. It’s just…grateful. You fucking hate it.
He pulls back just as soon as it started, an uncharacteristically dopey smile on his face.
You roll your eyes. “Wipe that off or they’ll know something’s up.”
“Well, down now thanks to you.”
Your eyes widen in shock at his words, his carefree attitude something you’ve never seen from him before.
He chuckles at your reaction, unlocking the door and peeking his head out to check for witnesses before he steps out.
He winks back at you, a silent gesture to let you know the ball is in your court.
The second he’s gone you curl in on yourself.
Fuck.
It takes you a while to figure out how to proceed.
You’re past the halfway mark by now, just three more weeks and he’ll be getting ready to toss you to the curb. At least that’s what you’ve been told from multiple sources.
It turns out Robby’s got a trail of broken hearts longer than his…the point is, you know you have to keep him interested, throw him a bone every now and then, so you do.
You let him get comfortable again in your little after work routine, go out to dinner with him, let him cop a feel under the table, let him revel in the little marks he’s left on your neck and chest like badges of honor.
But he starts to get a little too comfortable, too regulated with your routine. So you shake things up every now and then. You feel so awful when you can’t see him, some shifts ending way earlier than his now that you’ve got him hooked on you.
Which is why you compromise—
You: [sent a photo]
You know he’s losing his mind when he calls you in response exactly two minutes later.
“You know, I didn’t think so earlier, but you are definitely trying to kill me.”
You chuckle, a little seductive, definitely dismissive. “Is it working?”
He doesn’t answer with words, just a low, guttural groan that has you shifting under the covers.
“Doctor Robinavitch, are you touching yourself while on the phone with one of your employees?”
You just know his entire face and neck are beet red now.
He moans in response. “Aren’t you?”
You giggle. “Would you like me to?”
“I would like for you to come over…” he pants, an opening.
You sigh, reaching over to your bedside drawer and pulling out your vibrator, turning it on so that he can hear the humming on the other side of the line as your answer to that question.
He whines, a little dramatic for your liking but you’ll take it. After the shit he pulled in the storage closet, you’re definitely not going over anytime soon.
You insert the toy, body instantly erupting in goosebumps as you moan into your phone.
“See, I don’t understand why we even need men anymore,” you huff, airy and laced with pleasure. “Your dicks don’t even vibrate.”
He chuckles on the other end, amused by your…everything.
He’d never admit it, but he’s definitely never met anyone quite like you before, all spunk and no filter. It’s driving him crazy.
“Call me old fashioned all you want, but you’d forget all about your little toy if you had me inside of you.”
Fuck, you clench at his confidence, a moan escaping without your consent.
“See? Even the thought of my cock has you coming undone, baby.”
Cocky motherfucker.
“I bet I can make you cum without even touching you.”
He laughs then, unburdened for the first time in…
“You’re doing it right now.”
“No,” you whimper. “No stimulation…from either of us.”
“Now who’s cocky.”
The laugh that escapes you twists into a string of moans as your slick pushes the vibrator further into you, the bent tip notching perfectly against your g-spot.
“Robby I hate to cut this short but—”
“I got you, baby,” he groans, his own hand picking up the pace to catch up with you, the slick, desperate sounds only adding to your undoing.
“Fuck, please, Robby I need to cum.”
“Not yet.”
“Please, I don’t think I can hold it—”
“You can and you will.”
You wail, legs thrashing against your mattress as you clench your abdomen painfully. You focus on his pants, his moans, his peak, waiting impatiently as his breathing falters—
“Cum with me baby.”
It’s all the encouragement you need to let go, your release squirting out of you, pushing the toy out as it continues to vibrate. He hears it, the wetness of it all, and can’t help but beam as white, hot spurts land on his uncovered stomach.
“Fuck, Robby…” you mumble, taking your time as you come down from your high. Meanwhile, he’s still cumming, something that hasn’t happened to him since college.
He doesn’t know what pushes him to do it, but after his dick has finally stopped twitching from his release and finally settles back comfortably against his leg, he grabs his phone off the bed and—
Robby: [sent a photo]
You blink at the sudden ding from your phone, a streak of tears falling down your cheeks as you open the attachment.
Your breathing hitches, saliva pooling in your mouth suddenly.
“Robby,” you whine.
He huffs back a laugh. “Show me your mess, baby.”
A fire burns inside of you, desperate to fight back against all these horrible feelings that have spawned inside of you. With shaky hands, you turn the call into a FaceTime, pointing the camera down to the puddle between your legs.
“Fuck!”
You giggle in response, giving him a few more seconds before you hang up entirely, slumping back on the mattress with a dramatic huff.
After that night on the phone, you know it’s driving him crazy that he can’t have you all the time, that you haven’t made yourself accessible to him. It’s also not like he’s asked, he just figured you’d…be like every desperate woman he’s successfully gotten into his bed and actively want to jump his bones at every second too.
So he’s become determined to get you to crumble for him.
You’re in a work call that has definitely gone far too long, peacefully enjoying your lunch as it drones on and on when there’s a light knock at your office door.
You’re muted, have been since the start so you don’t think twice about it when you mumble a half-hearted come in.
And that he fucking does.
He looks like a man possessed, chest heaving, hands shaking—
You’ve never seen him like this before, never heard of anyone describe an incident with him where he’s so…wound up.
It knocks you off your center, whatever resentment you’ve been holding over him evaporates at the sight of his puffy, red eyes.
You leap out of your seat without thinking.
“What do you need?” What the actual fuck?
You shake the thought away as he speaks.
“On your knees.”
You drop down instantly, wasting no time as you pull his cock free from the confines of his scrubs and boxers. He’s vibrating, his shaky energy only making you jumpy in return.
But he doesn’t care. He can’t care.
You take him into your mouth without any further command, quickly surrendering yourself to the adrenaline he needs to take care of, hollowing out your cheeks as his hands grab your hair into a loose ponytail and his hips start rocking into you.
He can feel your breath on his pubic bone as you concentrate on breathing through your nose, eyes already becoming glossy as he just…takes.
And you let him.
He could honestly cry, and he almost does, your round eyes turning to stare up at him with what can only be described as silent understanding shaking him to his core so much that his own eyes become watery.
But he doesn’t let them fall, no, he focuses on the pleasure, on the release that he’s chasing.
His movements are sloppy, not deep or thought out. He just wants to cum, wants for the tightness in his chest to lighten, wants for the ringing in his ears to—
And then you swipe your tongue over his tip as he pulls out, the pressure against his slit sending a spark through his body that cuts through the noise.
He whimpers, pulling you back onto him, as far as he can go, before he spills into your mouth. He shakes uncontrollably, ass clenching as he finally allows for the band to snap, for the tower to crumble, for the truth to settle in his gut.
He’s…grateful, completelyreverent and devoted.
His grip loosens from your hair and you take the opportunity to push yourself off his length, finally taking in big, all encompassing breaths as he comes down from his own high. You watch him then, like a little fawn, confused and curious, like something has unlocked in your heart and you’re unsure how to fix it.
And then he pulls you up, suddenly aware that he’s tucked himself into his pants, before he tugs you with him back to your desk. He sits down at your chair, grabbing you like you weigh nothing and cradling you against his chest.
He does’t say anything.
You don’t dare utter a single word.
He just runs his hands all over your body, soothing and thankful and…
Your eyes close then, your body melting into his own, the call long forgotten, probably ended as the room settles into a comfortable silence.
“Thank you baby,” he kisses your temple. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Your eyes snap open. Your heart races, an anxious bird slamming against its cage.
This is bad. You definitely bit off more than you could chew, and from what you just experienced, you can chew on a lot.
You stare up at him, at the blissful expression over his tired face, at the serenity that wafts off him like gentle waves crashing against the sand.
A new type of anger settles in your stomach. It is time to ruin his peace.
Robby’s never been this happy in his entire life.
He’s aware of his reputation, aware of just how much he’s messed up when it comes to his heart. It’s not like he’s magically a better person because of you now, that would be absurd. But he is enjoying himself. There’s no expectation, no restriction, nothing like the thrill of the chase, of mutual understanding and compassion, of finally having found his match.
And he’s never had to work this hard to earn it before.
But he can feel it, he’s getting closer, gaining ground, the turtle always winning in the end, right?
After that day in your office, Robby has become a man with unquenchable thirst.
He needs to have you, completely, devour you whole, a meditative meal where he gets to take his time and worship every inch of your body.
You’ve texted to tell him you unfortunately have plans tonight. A shame since he doesn’t have to work tomorrow and he was hoping he’d get to spend it with you, finally.
His thoughts have been stuck on you for the past few weeks, the prefect memories to lock onto as he finishes up his charts while he waits for Shen to arrive for handoff.
He’s startled when someone knocks on the desk in front of him, his brain snapping back into the unfortunate reality that doesn’t involve you spread out beneath him as he fucks into you repeatedly.
“I thought you weren’t working tonight—”
“Relax brother,” Jack calms his anxieties quickly. “I’m not here for that.”
Robby looks at him distrustingly. “Okay?”
Jack nods, mouth opening as if to say something while his face contorts into something Robby doesn’t quite understand. He’s…apologetic? Why would Jack be—?
“Hi,” your voice suddenly warms the entire ED as you skip towards them.
Robby can’t help it, his cheeks blushing a deep crimson, his mouth curling into a bashful smile. What the fuck have you reduced him to?
He opens his mouth to greet you, your entire existence a spotlight directed towards him, fading away the darkness completely.
But then you…walk right past him.
Towards Jack.
Towards his open arms.
What the fuck is going on?
Panic and confusion flood his body, fill his lungs up with water, actually stop his heart for one absurdly long, drawn out second, because he watches you get on your tip toes and kiss Jack Abbot on his absurdly smug lips, and Robby’s certain this is some kind of divine punishment—
“Hey sweetheart,” Jack mumbles lovingly against your mouth. “You ready to go?”
You nod, brushing your nose with his, nauseatingly adorable.
Robby’s certain he’s going to pass out, the entire room spinning.
What the fuck is going on? You’re…you’re with Jack when you’re supposed to be with Robby? Okay, maybe he never defined the relationship with you but that doesn’t mean—No! Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you cheating on Jack with him? Oh no, is he the other man? Did he just ruin his friendship—
“Goodnight, brother,” Jack can barely meet his gaze when he speaks. Oh fuck Robby’s life is ruined.
He’s certain he looks pale as all hell, guilt written all over his wrinkles, cold sweat definitely staining his clothes and dripping down his brow.
It’s then that you turn to look at him for the first time.
You look…perfectly fine. Smiling like you’ve just won the lottery. A deviant satisfaction sparkling in your eyes. Wait—
“Good night, doctor Robby!” You whisper, saccharine and sickly sweet. “It was fun getting to work with you, please give Noelle my best if you see her.”
And with one final, diabolical smile, it all just crashes against Robby, the angle of the mountain finally pushing the rock all the way back down, knocking him off his feet, exhausted and shocked, unable to do anything more than fall on one of the chairs and stare off into the distance.
You little—
“Fuck!” He hisses, loudly, enough for the entire ED to stop and stare at him for longer than he’d like to admit.
But what he doesn’t notice, what neither of them do, is the way your face drops as you walk out, guilt spreading through your chest for the first time at the sight of his sullen expression.
You turn back to look at him, at how he’s just this sad little man, bruised and broken. Your heart aches, something deep inside of you twisting and turning uncomfortably. You can’t…no, you definitely don’t…fuck.
You swallow the lump in the back of your throat thickly.
He’s learned his lesson, definitely…but at what cost…to you?
Bonus scene (happens after you accept to destroy Robby for Noelle):
It's a little after nine when you finally get called down to the ED for your first consult. It's someone you know, a case you've been assigned to for a while so it's easy and comfortable.
You chat up the patient and his mother, make sure to explain the process of care as diligently as you can with Shen, all in all, a swift and easy case.
And yet, before you slink back upstairs to your little office, you linger.
Ugh, you hate it, it's gross honestly, your stomach twisting in both annoyance and indignation at how much of a hypocrite you've become.
But then you see him, coming out of a patient's room, his gaze already on yours as he cleans his hands with disinfectant and crosses the room to greet you.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Jack teases, the motherfucker able to read you with an ease that sends a shiver down your spine.
"I need to ask for a favor," you murmur, suddenly feeling a little childish about what you're about to say.
His eyebrow quirks in giddy expectation, easing whatever apprehension you've been feeling. Right, it's Jack for fuck's sake. If anyone's gonna understand your borderline sociopathic tendencies, it's him.
"I'm gonna do something silly, and I need you to promise me that you won't hate me for it."
He straightens his posture, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at you like he's trying to hold himself back from pouncing.
He has no right to be this fucking sexy.
"This about Robby and Noelle?"
You grin devilishly. God, he just gets you.
You manage a nod, biting down on your bottom lip to stop your smile from growing even bigger.
He sighs in response, not judgmental or disappointed, more so...absolutely fucking terrified for his friend.
"Please be gentle with him."
You scoff in mock offense. "He lost the privilege when he broke up with her via text."
"What?" His sharpness snaps the attention of the entire ED towards you. You shake your head for them, calming whatever outburst you think is being directed at you. It's only when the normal shuffle returns to the room that Jack continues. "Oh boy...yeah, can't help him there."
You shrug, leaning just a tiny bit forward. "I'll make it up to you when I'm done, I promise."
He smirks brightly, desperately fighting the urge to lean down and capture your lips with his.
"You better, pretty girl," he groans, low and deep. "And don't you even think about putting out for him.”
Your eyes widen. Oh.
"Can I..." you stumble then, cheeks burning hot, throat suddenly dry. "I'm gonna have to—just hand stuff, I promise."
Jack chuckles loudly. Jesus fucking Christ, this is definitely not where Jack expected his night to go but this is easily the best thing that could’ve ever happened to him. Watching you get so flustered, requesting such a…ridiculous thing from him—
He’s desperately fighting the raging erection threatening to tent his scrubs.
"No sex, no kissing," Jack states, eerily stern and possessive, basically drenching your panties with his tone because two can play at that game. "Hand stuff is fine, and just because I'm feeling generous, I'll let him get a taste of you and be haunted by your perfect mouth. Deal?"
He holds out his hand, pinky up for you to thread your own with his.
You're practically panting. "Fuck I love you."
He smiles dizzyingly in return, his heart close to popping from all the blood pumping through it.
"I love you too, crazy."
You interlock your finger with his, a matching mischievous look shared, powerful enough for everyone to act dumb at your obvious insanity, the night shift already used to the both of you being this intense all the time.
He steps back first, body buzzing with excitement. "Go, have fun ruining my best friend's life," he chuckles. "But I'm taking you home with me tomorrow morning."
You beam. “Yes, sir.”
a/n: if this gets a part two, it will devolve into Rabbot insanity just so you know. it’s honestly giving brat4brat and jack having to come in to dom the hell out of both of them
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader
summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.
warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.
Blood is just blood.
Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.
The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.
Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.
Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —
Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.
“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.
“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”
“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.
“Got it, Sarge!”
The engine roars.
The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.
They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.
And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.
“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”
“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”
“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.
Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.
Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.
Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.
“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.
“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.
“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.
Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.
The monitor goes off.
“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.
A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.
“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”
“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.
“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.
It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.
The beeping doesn’t stop.
Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”
“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”
Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”
“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”
“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”
Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.
Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.
Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.
“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.
This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.
“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”
“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”
“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.
“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.
“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”
“Mine would be to sit and wait.”
“That’s just lazy, man.”
“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”
They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.
“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”
“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”
“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”
“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”
The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.
And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.
“Do you ever take breaks?”
“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”
Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.
The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.
“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”
“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”
“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”
“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”
“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”
Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.
Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.
His heartbeat stutters.
But you don’t say a thing.
You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.
Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”
“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”
“Is it the beard?”
“Among other things,” you chuckle.
Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.
But you’re a natural at multitasking.
You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.
“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.
Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.
Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.
You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”
Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”
“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”
“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.
Like he is following a pull.
You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.
But for the second time, you don’t.
And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.
He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.
His tension slowly eases —
Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.
“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”
Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.
Robby first looks at you.
He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.
“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”
“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”
“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.
And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.
Levington doesn’t.
“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”
“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”
For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.
And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.
“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.
The sats drop down to 91.
“I got it,” you say in the same second.
Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.
“I’m in. Balloon up.”
The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.
“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”
But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:
“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”
That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.
The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.
Hiro’s voice booming.
“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”
Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.
Hiro gets hit.
His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.
There are two dead bodies left behind.
The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.
Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.
“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”
He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.
“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”
You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.
“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”
Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”
“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.
He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.
And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.
But why?
“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.
“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.
“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”
“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.
Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.
“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”
Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.
“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”
“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.
“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:
“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”
You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.
“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.
It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.
Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.
And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.
“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”
There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.
“Do they really?”
His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.
“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”
The room goes silent.
Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.
Correction: you aren’t fighting it.
“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”
“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”
The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.
You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.
“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”
His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.
His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.
“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”
“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”
“Shooting at people is.”
“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”
“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.
“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.
“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”
Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.
“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”
You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.
“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”
Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.
“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”
There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.
“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”
“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”
“You ever heard about self-defence?”
“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”
“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”
“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”
An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.
“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”
There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.
“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”
“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.
Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.
“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”
The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.
“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”
“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”
It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”
“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.
“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”
“They don’t —”
But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.
He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.
For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.
“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”
It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:
“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”
Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.
“Are you a therapist now too?”
“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”
“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.
You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.
Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.
“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”
Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.
Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)
He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)
Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”
Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.
“What’s the plan?”
“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.
“How soon can they take him?”
“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”
“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.
And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”
It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.
He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.
The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.
“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.
“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”
Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.
“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”
Jack can’t argue with that.
He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.
Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:
“She did get under your skin, huh?”
Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.
“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”
“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”
“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”
“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.
Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.
This time, the pain in his back lingers.
And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.
Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.
He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.
Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.
“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.
Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”
He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”
She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.
“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”
“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”
Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.
“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”
“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”
“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”
Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.
“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”
“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.
You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:
“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”
Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.
He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.
Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.
And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.
To find that you’re already looking at him.
Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:
“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”
Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.
“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.
“He’s doing alright up there?”
“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.
Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.
You don’t.
Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.
Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.
Jack goes rigid all over.
You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.
That’s not what happens.
Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.
You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.
Hoping you’ll stay for longer.
Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.
You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —
and then you’re done.
Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.
“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”
His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.
Still, he asks:
“Three what?”
“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”
You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.
His guilt stays.
He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.
It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?
Should he keep doing it?
Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”
Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”
“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”
It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”
“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”
Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:
“She’s my half-sister.”
He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.
“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.
That is one way to put it.
Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.
He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”
“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”
There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.
“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.
She flips him off on her way to the elevator.
His phone vibrates.
Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.
Levington:
You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.
The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?
Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.
So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.
Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.
He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.
It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.
The hardest will be trying to talk to you.
If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.
Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.
Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.
And somehow, he craves both.
✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?
the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).
✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune;
⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.
Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success, pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it
A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanely GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.
For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.
His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.
He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.
That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.
The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.
She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.
"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."
He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"
She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."
The words hung in the air.
"W-what?" he stuttered.
"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."
Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.
The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.
He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.
But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.
Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.
Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.
He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.
And then… he met you.
The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.
Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.
On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.
"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.
"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.
She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.
"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."
"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"
"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."
He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.
The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.
"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.
"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."
"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."
"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."
Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.
"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."
"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.
Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.
"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.
Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.
"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."
Ellis groaned.
"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.
"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."
Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."
As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"
Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them
"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."
He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.
He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.
Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"
Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.
"…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.
You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.
Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"
Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.
"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."
People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.
What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.
Ellis smirked.
The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.
"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."
Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.
"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"
A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.
"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."
The room laughed again.
"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."
Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.
"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."
The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.
"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"
You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.
"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."
A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.
"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"
"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.
The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.
You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.
"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.
MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+
AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000
The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.
"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.
"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.
You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."
Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.
The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.
"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."
"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."
You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.
"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"
Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.
"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.
You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.
"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."
"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?
He decided to change topics.
"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."
"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."
"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.
"Incredible, thanks for asking."
He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.
"Who was the nurse?"
"Dana Evans."
At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.
"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."
The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.
"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"
"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.
"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.
"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."
"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."
Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.
"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."
"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."
"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."
Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.
"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:
Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management
"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."
He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.
"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."
"It's on the house."
He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."
"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.
You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.
You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.
You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.
And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.
You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."
He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.
"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."
When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.
Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.
Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.
"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.
You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."
He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Sure."
"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.
Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.
"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."
You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."
"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.
You leaned back in your chair.
"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.
He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love iced caramel latte's—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—enjoy playing pickleball with your friends, and are a dog mom to your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."
You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.
"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.
"I-I was hoping that I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.
"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"Good. That's... really good."
You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.
"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."
You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"
"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"
You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right?
She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."
"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."
You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."
"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."
"I guess," you muttered.
The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.
The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.
"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."
"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."
"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."
You snorted.
"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes."
"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."
"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.
You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it
"Come home," she would say.
The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.
You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.
Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself
"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.
"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."
You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.
She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."
Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.
You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."
Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."
You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.
"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.
"What do you mean?"
"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."
Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"
"You just what?" you pressed.
Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."
You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."
He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"
"Yeah," you shrugged. "I guess I do."
He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.
"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."
Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.
In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with a guy until he hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.
"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."
You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.
He heard you.
Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.
Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.
"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.
Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.
"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."
Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.
"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."
Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.
"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.
Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.
The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.
The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.
"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.
"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."
Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.
High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.
But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.
Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.
Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.
Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.
There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.
His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.
Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.
You had changed.
The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.
You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.
"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."
"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"
"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.
So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finished talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."
He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."
Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?
Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.
"Bottom's up."
You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."
"What happened with your ex?"
You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."
He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."
The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."
"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.
"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I however had gotten a great offer from a reputable firm after a million interviews. It was a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."
You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.
"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.
"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?
"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.
Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."
You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.
"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."
"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."
You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."
Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.
"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."
He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."
"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.
"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."
He blinked slowly.
"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."
You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.
"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"
"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."
You snickered.
"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."
Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.
You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.
Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.
"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.
"No I definitely have. Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.
You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.
"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.
His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"
After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.
But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.
He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.
"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.
He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."
Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.
"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”
"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.
"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."
You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."
Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.
"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.
The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.
"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.
Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.
Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.
"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.
Remmy barked in agreement.
Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.
Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.
You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.
"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.
Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.
After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.
It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.
You hadn't seen Jack in a couple of days because of conflicting schedules. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.
"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.
"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."
"I wasn't talking about the food."
You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."
"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.
"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."
Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.
"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.
"I'm being honest about my intentions."
"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.
He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"
A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.
So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?
"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."
Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"
You were adorable.
"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."
"You weren't boring the other day when you—"
"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."
"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"
"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."
"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"
You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."
"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."
He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.
"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.
"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."
Girlfriend?
You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.
"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."
He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.
"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.
This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)
He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.
You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.
Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.
I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.
That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!
Synopsis: You switch to day shift after your argument with Jack, but another visit to the ED from his SWAT unit puts him right back in your path.
Warnings: minor (original) character death, my crush on Medic Bosco rlly shows in this one sorry, do not look at any of the medical stuff please, tiny animal kingdom Easter egg iykyk
A/n: Wowie - thank you for waiting on this one, I hope it delivers! Don’t hate me but there will be a Part 4
masterlist!
—
“Right-sided chest pain in two minutes. Can you run out there?”
You look up from your chart backlog, removing your glasses and blinking your eyes that still somehow feel strained — you never believed in that blue-light bullshit anyway. Your cheek is smushed into your first so deeply at this point that it’s probably left an imprint. The smoothie you’d pulled from your lunch bag an hour ago and have yet to take a sip from is melting on a coaster.
Lena is looking at you expectantly when you finally meet her eyes.
“Me?” you ask.
She sighs, her knuckles pushing into the central desk, her other hand pressed into her hip as she leans over to look at you, dropping the chart she’d been looking at. “Yes, you, hon. You got it? Shen’s still in with the last triage.”
You nod, taking a moment to snap yourself out of whatever stupor you’d entered, a blinking cursor in a completely blank white box of comments your only evidence that you hadn’t been zoned out long enough for your computer display to lock automatically.
“Yeah, I got it.”
You stand up finally, stretching out your lower back when you feel it’s gone stiff, letting your eyes sweep back to Lena’s, ready to keep up with the rouse that you’re fine — like, seriously, fine.
Not before your gaze locks with the only one you’ve been trying to avoid in this place. The constant, unmitigated chaos of the ED is usually enough to hide behind — shouting, movement, alarms and patient needs easy enough to get lost in.
But you hold Jack’s stare for a few seconds, counting one, two, three in your head. His mouth doesn’t move, set in a firm line. Yours is the same.
He breaks eye contact first, the secret, across-the-ED grins you’d grown to expect from him in the last few weeks nowhere to be found on his face, even if his eyes still twinkle the same way they always seemed to do when they meet yours. Jack probably couldn’t control that if he tried.
He shifts seamlessly back into listening to whatever presentation Crus is giving him outside of one of the South rooms, his lips moving around a follow-up question you could recite from memory if you tried hard enough.
“One minute,” Lena says, checking her watch. Your eyes finally let Jack go, and you find her fighting off a mischievous grin. When you furrow your eyebrows, she says, “it’s Bosco and Otero, by the way. You’re welcome.”
You realize Lena thinks herself doing you a favor, sending you out to meet the paramedic that up until recently you enjoyed occasionally flirting with, who’d hang around at the central desk much longer than he should just to bother her with your whereabouts until he was shooed off by a certain attending.
(An attending whose freckled arms you’d then go home and sleep in, returning to the ED feeling so well-rested after a night pillowed on his equally freckled chest that you’d forgotten all about Bosco’s cheesy lines by the next time you clocked in.)
You shake your head at her, a tiny smile tugging on your lips at her antics anyway, cheeks burning at the memory of how Jack would always have one rough hand glued to your waist when you woke up.
“You’re too much.”
“I’m just enough,” she says, causing you to tap your nails on her desk in affection on your way out to the ambulance bay.
You adjust your stethoscope that’d gone askew, pulling on a pair of gloves on your way to the sliding doors. You barely sidestep a gurney that barrels through the hallway, Parker looking at you weirdly as you just dodge it haphazardly — like she forgets you used to be on this shift all the time.
It’s a balmy and disgusting August heat when you finally step outside, your body immediately craving the chill of the AC, and a whoosh of warm air hits you as the ambulance pulls in.
Bosco greets you first, no surprise, hopping down from the driver’s side of the bus with a wolfish grin. “Well shit. Was beginning to think you permanently left us for days.”
You’re normally locked and loaded with a million replies to something like that, Bosco’s grin just begging to be played with. You’d never give him your number, but it was always a fun way to pass the time on a tedious, 12-hour shift.
You say nothing this time, maintaining your smile’s politeness.
Even the passing EMTs have noticed your attempt to sidestep Jack’s shift as much as possible these days. It’d been easy enough to avoid him at first, sticking to Shen’s service in an unspoken agreement and taking a day shift any chance you could. You knew Santos was growing tired of your asking to switch, and you jumped at the chance to make the shift change official when Robby offered, seemingly just as keen on punishing his best friend for his behavior as you were in a way that endeared you to him for his leadership just as much as it caused you to worry about Jack being on the outs with his best friend.
“I’d miss you too much, Bosco,” you sigh, rolling out your shoulders, already feeling a bit sticky in the heat. “What do you have for me?”
“My undying love?” he tries.
Otero snickers, poking his head out of the ambulance doors at that moment.
“Bro, that was awful,” he says, before nodding right at you. “Sup, doc. Long time no see.”
You brush past the other medic, who follows to help Otero unload the gurney with his grin undeterred, but you direct your attention to the patient, smiling reassuringly as you introduce yourself.
“You’re having some chest pain?”
“Edith Lynch, 46,” Otero says. “Right-sided pain for about an hour.”
“Hi, Ms. Lynch,” you say, unwinding your stethoscope from your neck, coming to her right side once the gurney is safely down with its frame extended and locked.
“Any cardiac history?” you ask, looking from the patient to both medics when she says nothing, just wincing and breathing heavily, clearly in distress.
“None,” Otero says.
“And you tried sublingual glycerin?”
He nods. “Minimal relief.”
Your mouth twists to the side, plugging your stethoscope into your ears and finding her heartbeat.
“And no STEMI on the ECG, right?”
“Nope,” Bosco says, shaking his head. “We did a 12-lead in the bus.”
“Hm,” you say, swinging your stethoscope back around your neck. Edith meets your eyes, and you give her a smile you hope is reassuring. “Well, let’s bring you in and find out what’s going on.”
You step out of the way when Bosco calls out suddenly.
“Oh, hey!” he says, voice raised, looking over your shoulder and back to the automatic doors. “Just the guy I wanted to see.”
“Oh yeah? Lena sent me out here. What do we got?”
You don’t look up at Jack’s voice, trying your best to keep your focus on Edith as you hear Bosco give him the same spiel about her history, compiling a mental list of next steps for her in your head.
Jack asks all of the same questions you did, then nods, catching your eyes. “Let’s get her inside, then.”
“Hey, Abbot,” Bosco says. “You still doing TEMS?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, looking to Otero as Bosco’s focus shifts elsewhere.
“Will you help me?” you ask him, taking the front of the gurney. Otero wordlessly takes the back end, the two of you pulling and pushing the gurney around Jack and through the doors.
“I am,” Jack says. You meet his eyes again as you pass by, but he looks back to Bosco just as quickly. “Why?”
“They train medics right?”
Jack and Bosco continue to speak outside of the door to North 5 once Edith is transferred to the bed by the four of you, with Olive coming in to assist at the last second.
Despite your best efforts to tune out their conversation, you can’t help but gather bits and pieces of it: “great opportunity,” “good next step,” promises for Jack to talk to his chief.
Your hand falters traitorously on the keyboard you’re using to set up a chart when you hear Jack mention that he’s scheduled for three shifts in the next two weeks and will definitely have time to put a word in.
It’s only when Edith goes slightly tachy, Olive urgently announcing her vitals to you, that you’re able to fully re-focus, knowing right away that something is wrong.
“Get Abbot in here and then draw the curtain,” you say quietly, passing by her on the way to Edith’s bedside. “I’m gonna repeat the 12-lead.”
“Edith,” you say, altering your voice slightly as you lean down, donning a fresh pair of gloves. “We’re gonna re-do the ECG, okay?”
“What’s going on?” Jack says, finally gloving up and taking your side, that stupid buddy-buddy tone he’d shared with Bosco replaced by his attending voice as his eyes flick across screens.
“She has a history of hyperlipidemia,” you say. “We tried aspirin. I think I should repeat the 12-lead.”
“Do it,” he says.
You forgot what it’s like to feel his trust, to make a call and have him back it immediately, his faith in you enveloping your confidence in another sheet of armor.
But Olive tugs Edith’s gown up, and you all fall silent.
“Fuck,” you and Jack say simultaneously.
Edith’s pulse crashes immediately, and then everything is a blur.
Only when she’s been coded and passed off to Shen and Crus for a transfer upstairs do you finally say anything to Bosco, who’s still lingering by the doorway, an entire shade paler as he’d watched the episode helplessly. He looks down at you, all of his previous mirth gone.
“Maybe she was diaphoretic? Or they slipped, or—”
You shake your head.
“Fuck. That,” you say firmly, cognizant of Jack walking by, just within earshot. “If you’re gonna run around and get shot at with the SWAT team, you might wanna go back to basics. Figure out how to properly place some anterior leads first.”
You’re surprised at yourself for omitting the dipshit pushing at the back of your teeth, but you figure the way Bosco’s mouth falls open and Jack’s sneaker catches on the floor with a squeak as he stops walking is a reward for your self-restraint.
You hear Jack call your name as you push past them both, but you ignore it, leaving them behind, an idea already forming in your head.
—
One of next times Jack and his SWAT unit come barreling into the ED is bad.
Really bad.
So bad, that Jack wishes he’d fought Robby harder on letting you switch to day shift, because he knows the chance you’ll be around to see this is higher than it would be if he hadn’t been such an idiot when you were still on his service.
Not that his protests would’ve done anything — Robby had witnessed his behavior on shift in the wake of your assault. He had plenty of justification as the chief to sign-off on your request, Jack cc’d on the approval notification like his opinion on the matter was a non-factor, an afterthought, a nice-to-have.
Just like that, Jack was lucky if he got to see you once a week these days, not that you’d pay him any meaningful attention, and not that he’d deserve it anyway.
He scarcely has time to think about any of that properly on the ride over, even if you never quite leave his mind on raids. In fact, the way your face was the first image the back of his eyelids would show him after a close call avoided was enough to freak him out, even before Mason’s case.
For now, you’re pushed to the background as he’s barking out orders for whoever’s driving to run as many lights as they can and worry about it later, and for Reynolds to keep his fucking hands on the wound and press harder, as hard as you can, dammit while he places Reseda’s chest tube.
It only takes a few minutes in Trauma 2, you right under Jack’s arm, alternating at both of his sides, flitting all around him, following everything he says and problem-solving when he can’t anymore.
He thinks at least Robby, McKay and Santos were there, too; at some point Garcia is called in — all hands on deck is what he’d heard Robby shout as soon as Jack’s team had rushed through the ambulance bay doors, grinding day shift to a halt.
It only takes a few chaotic, charged minutes for it to play out the way Jack had known it would from the second he saw Reseda’s wound at the warehouse, despite everyone’s best efforts. Despite yours.
He notices your gloved, blood-soaked hands shaking as Robby asks you to call it.
“Time of death 12:44pm,” you say, backing away, the anxiety thrumming in his veins increasing as your presence leaves his side.
Robby calls your name. But you don’t listen, gloves, gown and mask ripped off and shoved in the bin in record time, your glasses clattering to the counter near the sink as everyone in the room watches you go.
A pause for a moment of silence, the rest of Jack’s team who’d been watching through the door taking off their helmets, and then the quiet bustle of cleanup.
“I can talk to your guys,” Robby says quietly, a hand on his shoulder. Jack bristles at his touch, turning up to face him.
“Really?” he asks, his throat bobbing.
Robby nods, squeezing hard enough Jack can feel it through his Kevlar. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
Jack turns back to Reseda’s body, watching as her chest tube is removed, machines are pulled away, Santos and McKay chatting in the corner, heads down.
He’d only been working with SWAT for a few months, but Angie had been in a good chunk of the raids he rode along on. She and her husband had invited him to a barbecue when he first joined. She had a daughter and three dogs.
Jack doesn’t know what to say when he looks at Robby, so he just nods back.
“Go,” Robby says, tipping his head in the direction you’d gone.
“Come get me when her family is here,” he mumbles.
Jack finds you seated in the stairwell behind the trauma rooms, tucked away, quieter than the one that leads up to PTMC’s main waiting room.
This one goes all the way up to the roof if you chase it long enough, but Jack figured you wouldn’t even make it to the second floor when he followed after you. He was right.
“Hey.”
You look up as he approaches, shaking your head immediately, your chin wobbling.
“That was so awful, Jack,” you say, your tone defeated and thick, tears clogging up your throat and streaming down your face.
He approaches you like he would a scared animal, gingerly taking up a seat on the step beside you. Close enough that he feels your shoulder move against his with each ragged breath you take, his good leg bent and his prosthetic — aching after the events of the day — extended down the steps.
“I know it was. You doin’ okay?” he asks.
“I don’t think I wanna talk to you right now,” you say, but you make no move to get up as you continue to speak, voice quavering. “I’m sorry. I—I hope the rest of your guys are okay. And I’m sorry we couldn’t save her, but—”
“You did everything,” he says.
“We both did,” you say. Jack eyes your blood-stained sleeves as you press your eyes with the trembling hands. He looks down at this own, matching crimson on the cuffs of his camo, letting the silence settle over you both as you work to catch your breath.
“Are you gonna talk to her family?” you finally ask him quietly.
“Husband is on his way,” he says. He omits the part about her daughter coming in as well, figuring you don’t need to carry anymore weight at the moment.
The way you push your head into his shoulder proves to him that he probably made the right call — something he’d been terrible at recently.
Jack’s head rests atop yours slowly, boundaries naturally evaporating as your distress leaks through his clothing and mixes with the sweat coating his skin, his body still always ready to give yours whatever it needs from him.
It’s silent again except for your sniffles, and Jack unwinds his hands, his right arm snaking around your frame as it trembles into his own. His lips press into the pink headband you have holding your hair back today.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you say. Jack pulls away slightly, looking down at you.
Your eyes bloodshot, flecks of mascara down your cheeks, your face puffy all over, stare piercing right through his heart.
“I can promise that you don’t,” he murmurs. His other hand comes up toward you — still slow, achingly slow — to hold the side of your face, tilting until you make eye contact with him. Jack hasn’t touched you besides a mid-procedure brush past in he doesn’t know how many days, and this is not the way he foresaw it happening ever since you walked out on him, but his hands are magnetized to you right now, muscle memory kicking in for your comfort.
But you quickly push his hand away, the bubble bursting. “It’s not the same thing.”
“What’s not?”
He watches as you shake your head, pushing further back from him on the step. He instinctually thumbs a tear away even as his arm falls from your shoulders.
“You think I’m incompetent. When you worry about me out there, it’s because you think I’m not up for it, that I’m not stable enough for a challenge,” you say, head tipping toward the door to the ED, sniffling, arms hugging your knees, closed off to him again. “But I care about you.”
Jack’s leading emotion changes from concern to confusion on a dime. “What?”
“You pulled me off of every patient you didn’t think I could handle,” you say, your chin still wobbling. “But this,” you continue, gesturing to your face, laughing somberly, it catching on a sob. “I’m just worried about you. About that being you.”
Jack’s rough hand flexes in an out of a fist as he battles not to touch you again, knowing now you don’t want that, his gaze searching for yours with urgency. “You really think I don’t care about you?”
“You made it pretty clear I’m just your resident that you’re fucking,” you say. With that, you stand up, dropping down to the landing below the steps you’d been sitting on, facing him with your cheeks still damp.
“All I do is care about you, and worry about you, and wonder if you’re gonna piss off the wrong person one day on my service and I didn’t do anything to prevent it,” he says, standing, too, trudging down the steps to your level. “That’s literally all I think about. And you’re not — you’re not incompetent,” he continues. “You’re an amazing doctor. Out of everyone in that room, you’re the only reason Reseda had even a fighting chance.”
You laugh humorlessly, a fresh set of tears pushing over your waterline as your shoulders shake.
“And she’s still dead, so,” you shrug, eyes shifting to the door before they come back to him again. You sigh. “Are you okay?”
“Me?”
You nod, and Jack can’t believe you’re asking him that, tears still pouring down your face.
“No,” he says. “I’m not okay. I miss you.”
“Fuck, Jack,” you whimper, voice breaking around his name. “You can’t—”
“You were never, ever, just my resident,” he says in earnest, pleading. “You haven’t been since you got here.”
It sit there heavy in between the two of you — his confession, that he’d been taken with you long before your attack and his injury. Your eyes widen slightly.
“Then why did you say that to me?”
“I was angry. Angry at myself that something happened to you again when I was right there,” he says, pointing outside toward the desk. “I was right there. I was scared. You scare me.”
More accurately, you terrified Jack.
With how easily you slotted into his hospital, his life, his home and his bed. Blending right into his routine, becoming part of his consideration when he was thinking of what to cook for dinner, what to throw on the TV that neither of you would pay attention to.
It scared him how simple it all felt, right up until it didn’t. Until it stirred anxiety in an area of his chest he’d only ever reserved for his parents, his sister, his wife, Robby — when you were hurting, keeping him awake at night even when you were wrapped up in his arms, blinding him to his duty as an attending as long as moving some patients around might keep you even an iota further out of harm’s way.
“Sometimes, Jack,” you say. “We do things that scare us. Look at where we work. Look how you’re dressed.”
He takes a step closer. “I know, baby—”
You shake your head, backing up, all the way until your hand finds the door handle behind you. “Just let me know when I need to give my statement to your department.”
When he gathers himself enough to re-enter the ED, things are back to normal in that eerie way they often are right after your world shifts on its axis slightly and yet keeps turning.
Save for Robby talking with Blackwell, Reynolds and a few other officers, all of their faces pale.
And you’re now at the central desk with your back to him and to the room, with Dana’s arm around your shoulders, a sympathetic look on her face, McKay talking to you in a hushed tone from your other side.
Jack heart feels pulled between two worlds, his head not sure if he belongs in either of them.
—
The unit Jack is riding with later that week is made up of only half the usual officers he’s usually embedded with, to nobody’s surprise.
A lot of them had taken leave after Reseda, but the police department kept the wheels turning. Jack had declined the offer to push his next few shifts, along with the department-mandated grief counseling, to which nobody batted an eye.
Today’s call was a false alarm, and Jack knows he should feel lucky he times out in a few hours and gets to go home early. But it feels like a waste; he doesn’t have anyone waiting at home for him and using all of his streaming services to watch shows that’ll derail his algorithm completely, making fun of his obnoxiously large medic bag and how disorganized he lets it get the second he walks in the door. So the extra time before the ED is just unearned and pointless, probably to be filled by him laying awake listening to his scanner or giving one of those stupid shows you watch a try. He’d gotten sucked into a few just by osmosis.
“Hey, Abbot.”
He looks over at Blackwell, the unit’s sergeant, who’d called his name. “Sup?”
“I was thinking we could bring your doctor on a ride along next week. Just for those training exercises we have scheduled. Nothing crazy.”
Jack narrows his eyes, the conversation with Bosco in the ambulance bay coming back to him in pieces. It’d only been two weeks, but it feels closer to a year considering everything that had happened since.
He remembers giving Blackwood Bosco’s information the next time he’d gone in for a call, but he hadn’t heard anything since and had seemingly forgotten the entire exchange — save for the way you’d handed his ass to him after, poor kid having no idea most of that ire should be coming to him instead.
Jack felt it anyway.
“Bosco’s an EMT,” he finally sighs, his head dropping back against the wall of the bus. He shrugs. “But sure. Might be good for him to try it out so I’m not babysitting him in the field.”
Jack closes his eyes for what feels like a second before he opens them again, narrowing them in confusion when Blackwood says something that sounds like your last name instead.
“What?”
“Oh, yeah,” Reynolds says, nodding from the other side of the bus, protein bar shoved in his mouth. “She was cute. Might give the boys a little boost.”
Two others in the bus laugh, and Jack feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
“What the actual fuck are you two talking about right now?” he asks, sitting up straight.
“Woah,” Reynolds says, but he’s laughing now, too.
“No,” Jack says abruptly, shaking his head and looking between the two men, plus the others that had laughed, because none of this is funny.
Jack can’t get the image of you in that stairwell out of his head for even a second lately, least of all when he’s in strapped into this uniform, imagining all of the ways things are about to go wrong and he’ll have proven you right. “Why’s her name in your mouth?”
“Hey. Easy, doc,” Blackwood says, readjusting in his seat, sending Jack a weird look, not unlike those he gets from Robby. “She came to me.”
Jack tilts his head, blood still pounding in his ears. “She what?”
“One of the last few raids that brought us to your neck of the woods,” he says, tilting in his head in thought. “Shoot, I can’t even remember which. But she said you’d recommended it to her.”
“Did she?” Jack asks.
“Clearly not the case,” Blackwell laughs, shrugging like it was no big deal.
“She’s still a resident,” he says. My resident, he thinks. “She doesn’t have time for this shit right now.”
“Or ever, apparently.”
“Shut up, Reynolds,” Jack says.
“Oh c’mon, doc, don’t—”
“He’s right. Shut up,” Blackwood says, before nodding his head at Jack, an understanding passing between the two men.
A hush falls over them all as the bus carries them down the interstate, back to the station, and Jack’s pulling out his phone to look at who’s on schedule today at the ED.
bestie just read “rein me” and it’s so so good 😩 absolutely amazing work, the suspense, us tryna join swat ??😭 i am living for the drama that’s about to unfold , can’t wait for part 4 (no rush tho ofc 😭😭🙏🏽)
1000/10 no notes !!!!
“us tryna join swat” sent me hahaha
I’m glad you liked it! Part 4 is allllll written, I just broke it up bc it got to like 9k and that seemed like a natural stopping point
